“But he may go back to England. We discussed it all here at our secret meeting last Thursday.”
“Well, and suppose he is in England, it does not matter. The avenging hand of our great Contraras – who may Dios protect – will strike him there, never fear. Wherever he is, he cannot escape us. He will die, and his death will be a mystery to the English police – as so many deaths have been.”
At that moment the pair found themselves passing the great old Gothic door of Santa Gadea, which the sacristan had thrown open to the air for an hour to clear the atmosphere of incense before closing for the night. In the deep, cavernous silence the eternal red lamp showed before the figure of the Virgin crowned, while far beyond were the long candles burning before the altar, with its many steps.
The sight of those candles impelled the pious and enthusiastic Carlos to suggest that they should enter the church, and there pray for the success of their plans.
The Deputy-Governor of Navarre in the shabby straw hat smiled, and at once agreed.
In all Latin countries the lower class have a habit of kneeling before their favourite altar and craving blessings of the most paltry character. In Italy, the contadini ask that the winning numbers of the lotto or Government lottery may be revealed to them, or beg that their attempt at theft may be successful. In Spain they implore divine grace for a big catch of fish, or a fat harvest, so that they may enrich themselves.
Cupidity is, alas, the mainspring of most of the prayers of Southern Europe.
Garcia Zorrilta, political adventurer and wire-puller, who by reason of his cunning and unscrupulousness had risen from clerk in a flour-mill in Toledo to be Deputy-Governor of the Province of Navarre, knew how pious was his friend the young fisherman, and, mock piety being part of his profession, he was compelled to enter that great dark, over-ornamented church, and there kneel with his companion before the altar.
What Zorrilta, one of the lieutenants of the great Contraras, prayed for one does not know, but the prayer of Carlos the fisherman was for the speedy death of the one man he most greatly feared, the man to whom he had referred as “the Englishman.”
But as he rose from his knees, he whispered under his breath:
“Cuando no puede uno vestirse la piel del leon, vestase de la vulpeja– when you cannot clothe yourself in the lion’s skin, put on that of the fox.”
Chapter One
The evening shadows were falling softly as the Earl of Saxham stepped into one of the small drawing-rooms of that palatial residence, Ticehurst Park, in the county of Sussex.
Ticehurst Park was a magnificent domain, deeply mortgaged. Out of its fair revenues, there were two or three heavily-pensioned dowagers who had to be provided for, there were a heap of relations who had to draw their small annual stipends.
On paper, the Earl of Saxham was a very wealthy nobleman. When he had deducted the interest on mortgages, and the yearly stipends and marriage settlements, he was quite poor. Out of every sovereign he received, he retained about ten shillings.
A less even-tempered man would have cursed his bad luck, that he should have been saddled with three dowagers, and a host of other cormorants.
Archibald, tenth Earl of Saxham, was a delightful optimist. He had come into the title by a series of fortunate accidents, and he was disposed to think that, on the whole, Providence had arranged things very agreeably. Before he took up the mantle of his fathers he had been trying to make both ends meet on a small private fortune of seven hundred a year, with but indifferent success. He had now, those irksome deductions apart, several thousands a year – in fact, a still very considerable income.
He fitted into the position as easily as a glove. His wife, a woman of noble birth like himself, assisted him ably. They speedily became the most popular couple in Sussex, a county which boasts of many noble families.
He came into his inheritance at the age of thirty. Ten years after his beautiful and beloved wife died, leaving him with three children, Eric Viscount Ticehurst, Guy Rossett, and Mary Rossett. He was so devoted to the memory of his wife that he did not marry again.
Mary Rossett, the youngest of the three, was sitting in the small drawing-room when he entered this particular evening.
She was a handsome young woman of about twenty-five years, tall and slender. Her demeanour was a little staid, suggesting a woman some five years her senior.
Truth to tell, Mary Rossett had experienced a bitter romance when she was at the age of twenty. Her heart was buried in the grave of a young officer of the Guards, who had died suddenly a few days before the date of their wedding.
From that fatal day, she had said good-bye to love, in a measure to youth. No other man would ever charm back the lovelight into the eyes of Mary Rossett.
But fate, which had stricken her so sorely, did not deprive her of her sweet and womanly qualities. She was the beloved companion of her brothers, the idol of her widowed father; and she was adored by all the villagers on the estate, to many of whom she was often a ministering angel.
The Earl of Saxham, as he entered the small drawing-room, was smiling in a peculiar manner. His daughter recognised that peculiar smile. Her father was very pleased with himself over something. But she knew what that something was.
“So Guy has come,” he cried cheerfully. “Well, Mary, don’t you give it away when he tells us the good news, or it will spoil it all.”
Lady Mary rose, and laid an affectionate hand on his arm.
“No need to caution me, dearest. You know I never give myself away. Keep a guard on yourself. Don’t smile too much, or look at me too meaningly when he is telling us, or he’ll spot it. You know, you are a little indiscreet at times.”
The Earl smiled genially.
“I know, I know, Mary. There is no fool like an old fool, they say. But this is really a great thing. I wrung it out of old Greatorex. And, once in Spain, we shall get him out of the reach of that young minx, Isobel Clandon.”
Mary’s brows contracted into a slight frown: Love had left her stranded, but she was still very sympathetic to young lovers.
“Why are you so hard on poor Isobel, father?” she asked in her clear, kind voice. “I know she is poor, but she is a lady and well-born.”
Her voice faltered a little, as she added, “Hugh was poor, when you gave your consent that I should marry him. Why do you make this distinction with Guy?”
The Earl looked a little embarrassed.
“My dear Mary, you are a sensible girl, and you must see that the circumstances are totally dissimilar. Hugh was the younger son of a house as noble as our own. True he was poor, but I could have helped you.”
“And if you were ready to help me, you can help Guy and Isobel,” flashed Lady Mary quickly.
The Earl spoke a little irritably.
“It is very strange you can’t see it. Isobel Clandon is, I admit, quite a lady in the technical sense of the term. But Guy must look beyond that. He must marry in his own rank. Failing that, he must marry a woman with money.”
Lady Mary spoke with an equal irritation.
“You are unjust, father, unjust both to Guy and Isobel. You have no right to ruin these two young lives with your prejudices and your old-world notions.” Her voice dropped into a half-sob as she concluded. “What is there in the world better than real love? And these two love each other devotedly.”
The Earl was about to reply angrily, for he was a somewhat obstinate old man, and hated being thwarted. But, before he could utter a word, the door opened to admit Guy Rossett.
Guy was a very handsome young fellow, with a winning and genial expression. He advanced and shook his father’s hand warmly, and kissed his sister with equal