‘it is as difficult to be entirely bad as it is to be entirely good.’
to those who say that there is no faith, spain is in itself a palpable answer. no country in the world can show such cathedrals as those of granada, cordova, seville, toledo, burgos. in any other land any one of these great structures would suffice. but in spain these huge monuments to that faith which has held serenely through war and fashion, through thought and thoughtlessness, are to be found in all the great cities. and the queen of them all is toledo.
father concha, that sour-visaged philosopher, had a queer pride in his profession and in the history of that church which is to-day seen in its purest form in the peninsula, while it is so entangled with the national story of spain that the two are but one tale told from a different point of view. as a private soldier may take pleasure in standing on a great battlefield noting each spot of interest—here a valley of death, there the scene of a cavalry charge of which the thunder will echo down through all the ages—so concha, a mere country priest, liked to pace the aisles of a great cathedral, indulging the while in a half-cynical pride. he was no great general, no leader, of no importance in the ranks. but he was of the army, and partook in a minute degree in those victories that belonged to the past. it was his habit thus to pay a visit to toledo cathedral whensoever his journeys led him to castile. it was, moreover, his simple custom to attend the early mass which is here historical; and, indeed, to walk through the church, grey and cool, with the hush that seems to belong only to buildings of stupendous age, is in itself a religious service.
concha was passing across the nave, hat in hand, a gaunt, ill-clad, and somewhat pathetic figure, when he caught sight of sir john pleydell. the englishman paused involuntarily and looked at the spaniard. concha bowed.
‘we met,’ he said, ‘for a moment in the garden of general vincente’s house at ronda.’
‘true,’ answered sir john. ‘are you leaving the cathedral? we might walk a little way together. one cannot talk idly—here.’
he paused and looked up at the great oak screen—at the towering masonry.
‘no,’ answered concha gravely. ‘one cannot talk idly here.’
concha held back the great leathern portière, and the englishman passed out.
‘this is a queer country, and you are a queer people,’ he said presently. ‘when i was at ronda i met a certain number of persons—i can count them on my fingers. general vincente, his daughter, se?ora barenna, se?orita barenna, the englishman conyngham, yourself, se?or concha. i arrived in toledo yesterday morning; in twenty-four hours i have caught sight of all the persons mentioned, here in toledo.’
‘and here, in toledo, is another of whom you have not caught sight,’ said concha.
‘ah?’
‘yes; se?or larralde.’
‘is he here?’
‘yes,’ said concha.
they walked on in silence for some minutes.
‘what are we all doing here, padre?’ inquired sir john, with his cold laugh.
‘what are you doing here, se?or?’
sir john did not answer at once. they were walking leisurely. the streets were deserted, as indeed the streets of toledo usually are.
‘i am putting two and two together,’ the great lawyer answered at length. ‘i began doing so in idleness, and now i have become interested.’
‘ah!’
‘yes. i have become interested. they say, padre, that a pebble set in motion at the summit of a mountain may gather other pebbles and increase in bulk and speed until, in the form of an avalanche, it overwhelms a city in the valley.’
‘yes, se?or.’
‘and i have conceived the strange fancy that frederick conyngham, when he first came to this country, set such a pebble in motion at the summit of a very high mountain. it has been falling and falling silently ever since, and it is gaining in bulk. and you, and general vincente, and estella vincente, and se?orita barenna, and frederick conyngham, and in a minor degree myself, are on the slope in the track of the avalanche, and are sliding down behind it. and the general and estella, and yourself and conyngham, are trying to overtake it and stop it. and, reverendo, in the valley below is the monarchy of spain—the bourbon cause.’
father concha, remembering his favourite maxim that no flies enter a shut mouth, was silent.
‘the pebble was a letter,’ said sir john.
‘and larralde has it,’ he added after a pause. ‘and that is why you are all in toledo—why the air is thick with apprehension, and why all spain seems to pause and wait breathlessly. will the avalanche be stopped, or will it not? will the bourbons—than whom history has known no more interesting and more unsatisfactory race, except our own stuarts—will the bourbons fall, se?or padre?’
‘ah!’ said concha, whose furrowed face and pessimistic glance betrayed nothing. ‘ah!’
‘you will not tell me, of course. you know much that you will not tell me, and i merely ask you from curiosity. you perhaps know one thing, and that i wish to learn from you—not out of curiosity, but because i, too, would fain overtake the avalanche and stop it. i am no politician, se?or, though of course i have my views. when a man has reached my age, he knows assuredly that politics merely mean self-aggrandisement, and nothing else. no—the bourbons may fall; spain may follow the lead of france and make an exhibition of herself before the world as a republic. i am indifferent to these events. but i wish to do frederick conyngham a good turn, and i ask you to tell me where i shall find larralde—you who know everything, se?or padre.’
concha reflected while they walked along on the shady side of the narrow street. it happened to be the street where the saddlers live, and the sharp sound of their little hammers on leather and wood came from almost every darkened doorway. the padre had a wholesome fear of esteban larralde, and an exaggerated estimation of that schemer’s ability. he was a humble-minded old man, and ever hesitated to pit his own brain against that of another. he knew that sir john was a cleverer man than larralde, deeper versed in that side of human nature where the seams are and the knots and the unsightly stitches; older, more experienced, and probably no more scrupulous.
‘yes,’ said the priest, ‘i can tell you that. larralde lodges in the house of a malcontent, one lamberto, a scribbling journalist, who is hurt because the world takes him at its own valuation and not at his. the house is next to the little synagogue in the calle de madrid, a small stationer’s shop, where one may buy the curse of this generation—pens and paper.’
‘thank you,’ said sir john, civilly and simply. this man has no doubt been ill-painted, but some may have seen that with different companions he wore a different manner. he was, as all successful men are, an unconscious actor, and in entering into the personality of the companion of the moment he completely sank his own. he never sought to be all things to all men, and yet he came near to the accomplishment of that hard task. sir john was not a sympathetic man; he merely mistook life for a court of justice, and arraigned all human nature in the witness-box, with the inward conviction that this should by rights be exchanged for the felon’s dock.
with concha he was as simple, as direct, and as unsophisticated as the old priest himself, and now took his leave without attempting to disguise the fact that he had accomplished a foreset purpose.
without difficulty he found the small stationer’s shop next to the synagogue in the calle de madrid, and bade the stationer—a spectacled individual with upright hair and the air of seeking something in the world which is not usually behind a counter—take his card to se?or larralde. at first the stationer pretended ignorance of the name, but on discovering that sir john had not sufficient spanish to conduct a conversation of intrigue, disappeared into a back room, whence emanated a villanous smell of cooking.
while sir john waited in the little shop, father concha walked to the plazuela de l’iglesia vieja, which small square, overhanging the tagus and within reach of its murmuring voice, is deserted except at midday, when the boys play at bull-fighting and a few workmen engage in a grave game of bowls. concha sat, book in hand, opened honestly at the office of the day and hour, and read no word. instead, he stared across the gorge at the brown bank of land which commands the city and renders it useless as a fortress in the days of modern artillery. he sat and stared grimly, and thought perhaps of those secret springs within the human heart that make one man successful and unhappy, while another, possessing brains and ability and energy, fails in life, yet is perhaps the happier of the two. for it had happened to father concha, as it may happen to writer and reader at any moment, to meet one who in individuality bears a resemblance to that self which we never know and yet are ever conscious of.
sir john pleydell, a few hundred yards away, obeyed the shopman’s invitation to step upstairs with something approaching alacrity.
larralde was seated at a table strewn with newspapers and soiled by cigarette ash. he had the unkempt and pallid look of one who has not seen the sun or breathed fresh air for days. for, as concep?ion had said, this was a conspirator who preferred to lurk in friendly shelter while others played the bolder game at the front. larralde had, in fact, not stirred abroad for nearly a week.
‘well, se?or,’ he said, with a false air of bravado. ‘how fares it with your little undertaking?’
‘that,’ replied sir john, ‘is past—and paid for. and i have another matter for your consideration. conyngham is not, after all, the man i seek.’
sir john’s manner had changed. he spoke as one having authority. and larralde shrugged his shoulders, remembering a past payment.
‘ah!’ he said, rolling a cigarette with a fine air of indifference.
‘on the one hand,’ continued sir john judicially, ‘i come to make you an offer which can only be beneficial to you; on the other hand, se?or larralde, i know enough to make things particularly unpleasant for you.’
larralde raised his eyebrows and sought the matchbox. his thoughts seemed to amuse him.
‘i have reason to assume that a certain letter is now in your possession again. i do not know the contents of this letter, and i cannot say that i am at all interested in it. but a friend of mine is particularly anxious to have possession of it for a short space of time. i have, unasked, taken upon myself the office of intermediary.’
larralde’s eyes flashed through the smoke.
‘you are about to offer me money; be careful, se?or,’ he said hotly, and sir john smiled.
‘be careful, that it is enough,’ he suggested. ‘keep your grand airs for your fellows, se?or larralde. yes, i am about to offer you two hundred pounds—say three thousand pesetas—for the loan of that letter for a few hours only. i will guarantee that it is read by one person only, and that a lady. this lady will probably glance at the first lines, merely to satisfy herself as to the nature of its contents. three thousand pesetas will enable you to escape to cuba if your schemes fail. if you succeed, three thousand pesetas will always be of use, even to a member of a republican government.’
larralde reflected. he had lately realised the fact that the carlist cause was doomed. there is a time in the schemes of men, and it usually comes just before the crisis, when the stoutest heart hesitates and the most reckless conspirator thinks of his retreat. esteban larralde had begun to think of cuba during the last few days, and the mention of that haven for spanish failures almost unnerved him.
‘in a week,’ suggested sir john again, ‘it may be—well—settled one way or the other.’
larralde glanced at him sharply. this englishman was either well-informed or very cunning. he seemed to have read the thought in larralde’s mind.
‘no doubt,’ went on the englishman, ‘you have divined for whom i want the letter and who will read it. we have both mistaken our man. we both owe conyngham a good turn—i, in reparation, you, in gratitude; for he undoubtedly saved the se?orita barenna from imprisonment for life.’
larralde shrugged his shoulders.
‘each man,’ he said, ‘must fight for himself.’
‘and the majority of us for a woman as well,’ amended sir john. ‘at least, in spain, chivalry is not dead.’
larralde laughed. he was vain, and sir john knew it. he had a keen sight for the breach in his opponent’s armour.
‘you have put your case well,’ said the spaniard patronisingly, ‘and i do not see why, at the end of a week, i should not agree to your proposal. it is, as you say, for the sake of a woman.’
‘precisely.’
larralde leant back in his chair, remembering the legendary gallantry of his race, and wearing an appropriate expression.
‘for a woman,’ he repeated with an eloquent gesture.
‘precisely.’
‘then i will do it, se?or. i will do it.’
‘for two hundred pounds?’ inquired sir john coldly.
‘as you will,’ answered the spaniard, with a noble indifference to such sordid matters.
