CHAPTER LVI. — IN WHICH THERE IS A TERRIBLE CALAMITY.
Russell's advent among the embarrassed lovers can easily be explained. Seated at the gate in the uniform of a general, with gorgeous array of blue and gold, with a sword in his manly hand, and armed warriors around him, his martial soul had gradually lost its terrors, and his mind was at leisure to think of other things.
First among these other things was that precious package which he had concealed. Now was the time for him to look them up and regain possession. None but friends were now in the castle. Those bonds were now safer in his own possession than anywhere else, and never could he hope for a better chance than this. As for Rita, she must have fled, he thought, with the other fugitives, and with her had fled his worst fear.
With such thoughts as these, the martial Russell sheathed his warlike sword and walked back again toward the castle. Here he entered the hall where the others were talking, and, passing through, entered the well-remembered room where he had been confined. He looked all around. He was alone. He walked to the chimney. He looked up. Through the broad opening at the top he saw the sky. In the gloom of the shaft he saw also that opening in which he had placed the precious parcel.
All seemed as it had been, and he felt convinced that his papers were safe. Further examination, however, was, just now, not advisable. He would have to light a torch, and some of his friends might come in just as he was going up or coming down. So he concluded to defer his search until they had gone out of the way a little, until which time the package would be quite safe. In the mean time he thought he would go back and hear what they were all talking about.
Coming back again, he saw them all going in different directions, and, as a matter of course, he followed those who were nearest and dearest, namely, Katie and Harry. He stood and listened with a benignant smile to their loving words. He gazed complacently upon their outrageous and unbounded spooning. He had no objection now to any one whom Katie might choose. To Ashby he felt repugnance on account of former quarrels, but to Harry none whatever. Even to Ashby he would have yielded, for prejudices die out quickly in a Castle of Spain. And so, as we have seen, the good Russell interrupted the happy lovers in a paternal way, and did the "heavy father" to perfection—with outstretched hands, moistened eyes, and "Bless you, bless you, my children!"
The subject of flight was already before them, and this was for Russell the most acceptable possible. He felt that he could give valuable information, since he himself had been a fugitive. Every step of the way was well remembered by him. In a few minutes he had made them acquainted with the story of his former escape, and the adventurous Harry at once decided that this would be the very way by which he could carry off Katie and himself from their embarrassing surroundings. For various reasons he wished to go away in a quiet, unobtrusive manner, without ostentation or vain display, and in no other way could he do it so effectually as in this.
Harry at once decided that his best course would be to spend the hours of closing day in making himself acquainted with this passage. He did not feel inclined to be altogether dependent upon Russell. Circumstances might arise which might make it desirable to fly without him. That good man might become suddenly unwell, or there might be an attack by the enemy, or other things might occur, under any of which circumstances Harry would have to rely upon himself alone.
Russell had no objections; in fact, he himself preferred going over the way once more. About this there was no difficulty. There were very few in the castle, and these had no idea of watching each other; in fact, each party seemed only too anxious to keep out of the other's way.
Katie now retired to that room which she had last occupied, and Harry went off with Russell. The daylight befriended them so that they were able to find their way along the lower passages, until at length they came to the opening under the arch of the ruined bridge. Here they both went down one side of the chasm and up the other until they both reached the tower. Harry was delighted with this discovery, and felt fully capable of traversing the path himself even in the darkest night; while Russell, though a little out of breath, was quite willing to bear the fatigue in return for the additional knowledge he had gained.
On regaining the castle, Harry went to tell Katie the result, and to prepare her for their coming flight.
Russell now had leisure to attend to the great work of securing the hidden treasure. He decided that he ought to do this in perfect secrecy, so that none of his friends should know where he was going, or even suspect it.
First of all, he followed Harry to the upper story, where he took an affectionate leave of him. Then he prowled about until he discovered Ashby, who was with Dolores in a remote part of the court-yard. The six Carlists were still at the gate. The other two inmates of the castle, namely, Brooke and Talbot, were in the room in which the recent stormy events had taken place. They had been attending to the wounds of the prisoners, and were still so engaged that they did not look up as Russell entered. He said nothing, but hastily retreated and went into the opposite room—the very one in which he wae to conduct his operations. But he was too cautious to begin just yet; so he waited, and at length had the satisfaction of seeing these two go down-stairs and out of the castle.
And now at last the time had come. There was no eye to behold him, and no one to suspect.
An old torch was in the fireplace. This he picked up, and then, going back to the door, looked all around stealthily and warily. All was still.
Thereupon he returned. His manly heart was throbbing fast—violently, even painfully. The sense of loneliness was oppressive. Had his purpose been less important, he would certainly have turned and fled. But too much was at stake. Before him there arose the vision of that vast treasure—thirty thousand pounds—and its attraction was irresistible. He must go forward; and now was the time to win, or never.
He stood for a moment gathering up his courage.
What if Rita should be concealed somewhere up there!
Such was the awful thought that suddenly occurred to him and made him quail.
The idea suggested itself of going back to Harry and getting his aid. But no, that would never do. He would let it be supposed that these bonds had been taken from him. If he were to tell his secret to Harry, all would be lost. No; he must go, and alone.
Once more he went to the door and listened. All was still.
He now nerved himself up for a supreme effort. If he were to delay any longer, some of them would be sure to return. Now or never.
He struck a match against the stone floor. It kindled.
In another moment the torch was blazing brightly; and, holding this in one hand, Russell used his other hand to clamber up the projecting stones.
Up he went, higher and higher.
And now he reached the opening, and his knee was resting upon it, and he was just about to raise the torch so as to peer in.
At that instant there was a sudden rush, and a spring, that sent a thrill of sharp agony to his heart. A pair of strong arms were flung about him. The torch fell, and the smoke blinded his eyes. He felt himself dragged forward helplessly into the gloomy hole, while a fierce whisper hissed into his despairing ears words that made him almost die out of sheer fright—
"Hah! base traidor, I haffa you! I haffa you! You salla not scappar from Rita again!"
At this Russell gave a wild, long, piercing yell, and fainted.
CHAPTER LVII. — IN WHICH BROOKE AND TALBOT PREPARE TO BID EACH OTHER AN ETERNAL FAREWELL.
On turning away from that eventful meeting with old friends, both Brooke and Talbot felt very greatly depressed, and neither could say a word. This feeling was experienced by both to an equal degree; and neither of them could see any possible way out of this new difficulty that could commend itself to an honorable mind.
The conversation with Harry had quite overwhelmed Talbot. He had been so eager to explain, and the explanations had shown such fidelity on his part, he had seemed so true, and his vindication had been so complete, that she had not one word to say. For the fact remained plain before her mind that the cause of his failing to receive her at Barcelona was his very eagerness to meet her which had sent him flying in all haste to England. If he had ever been in fault, the fault was one which had arisen from excess of love. To a generous mind like Talbot's this was a most distressing thought.
Still, there was another thought which was worse, and that was this—namely, that Harry could no longer satisfy her. Whether she had ever really loved him or not she did not now stop to inquire, nor was such an inquiry worth making. It was only too evident now that Harry had declined to nothingness, and less than nothingness, in her heart, and that in the course of the tragical events of the last few days Brooke had grown to be more than all the world to her.
The feelings and thoughts of Brooke were of the same description. It had seemed to him that Dolores had been faithful; and as he had all along felt firmly convinced of her passionate love for himself and unalterable fidelity, it never entered into his head now to suspect any change in her. At the same time, he felt that, whether he had ever loved her formerly or not, he certainly had no feeling of love for her now; for Talbot had utterly effaced that former image, and all the world would now be as nothing to him without Talbot.
For some time they devoted themselves to the wounded men, and then, having finished this task, they retreated to the farthest end of the room. Here there was a rude bench, upon which they seated themselves, and remained thus for a long time in utter silence.
"You saw my meeting with—with that—young lady," said Brooke, at last. "Did you understand who it was? It was—Dolores."
"I know," said Talbot, with a heavy sigh. "And did you observe my meeting with that gentleman? Did you understand that?"
"What!" cried Brooke, in amazement at the suggestion which was conveyed by Talbot's words. He had not had leisure to notice or think of any one except Dolores.
"It was Mr. Rivers," said Talbot.
"The devil!" cried Brooke, with a groan.
At this Talbot very properly said nothing.
"Well," said Brooke, after a long pause, "I didn't know that things could possibly be more infernally embarrassing or more confoundedly complicated than they were; but this is certainly a little beyond what I dreamed of. And—and—"
He turned with a despairing look and took Talbot's hand.
"What, Brooke?"
"Am—am I—to—to—congratulate you—and all that?" he stammered.
"What!" said Talbot, reproachfully.
Brooke was silent.
"Oh, Brooke," said Talbot, "what are we to do?"
"Give it up," said Brooke, in a dismal voice.
"This," continued Talbot, "is worse than when we were prisoners, and dying by turns for one another."
"I wish," said Brooke, "that I had died when I wanted to."
"And must we now give one another up?" sighed Talbot.
"Don't see what else we can do," said Brooke. "We've got to keep our confounded promises."
"Which promises, Brooke?"
"I don't know."
"Brooke!"
"What?"
"What ought I to do?"
"I don't know."
"Ought I to keep my promise?"
"Which promise?"
"Why, my promise to—to Mr. Rivers."
"D—n Mr. Rivers!" growled Brooke, turning away.
"That," said Talbot, mildly, "is not an answer to my question."
"But how do I know?" said Brooke, in a voice like a wailing child.
"But how can I? how can I?" cried Talbot. "And when you are here—you, Brooke, who know all my heart! Can I give you up? I cannot! You may give me up, if you like."
"Why don't you say, if I can?" said Brooke.
"Oh—any way," said Talbot, wearily.
There was another silence.
"Marry him!" cried Talbot, at last, breaking the silence with vehement abruptness. "I cannot! I cannot! It would be wicked. I should desecrate the holy sacrament. I could not utter that vow before the holy altar. Never! Yet I can't stay here where he is. He will be wishing to see me. He will be coming soon—he may be coming now. I will not see him. I will not speak with him again. I will write to him. I will leave this place, and at once."
"Leave this place!" repeated Brooke. "Where can you go?"
"Why, I'll go home," said Talbot, firmly.
"Home?"
"Yes."
"How can you? You don't know the way."
"I know one place where I can go—to that tower—that sweet tower; it is not far away; it must be easy to get there. I will go there—there, Brooke, where I first became acquainted with you; and then—"
Here Talbot paused, and turned away her head.
"But you can't live there," said Brooke, in a harsh voice.
"I can find my way back to the road," said Talbot, in a tremulous tone—"to the road where I first met you, Brooke; and then—why, then I shall be no worse off than when you found me and assisted me."
"It's all nonsense," said Brooke; "you can't go alone."
"Yes, I can."
"You'll be taken prisoner."
"I don't care."
"Or, if not, you'll die of starvation."
"Very well," said Talbot, in a calm voice, and looking at Brooke out of serene eyes, with a face from which all traces of emotion had departed—"very well; I have already showed that I am not afraid of death; and death by starvation is not more terrible than death by bullets."
Brooke looked at her for a moment in silence, and then said,
"You are not in earnest?"
"I am in earnest," said Talbot, looking at him fixedly, and speaking in a resolute tone—"I am in earnest, and I mean to go this very night."
Brooke looked away, drew a long breath, and subsided into silence.
"How can you find the way?" he asked at length, in a gruff voice, and without looking up.
"I don't know," said Talbot; "I can try again, as I tried before."
Brooke looked up hastily, then looked away, and finally said,
"I think, Talbot, you might ask me to show you the way."
At this Talbot's face flushed, and all her expression was suddenly changed from one of dull dejection to animation and delight.
"Will you?" she asked, breathlessly.
"Oh yes," said Brooke, "that isn't much to do. Oh yes, I can easily show you the way to the tower. After all, it is as safe there as here; and if you are determined to go, why, we can start, you know—at any time, you know."
"But will you—can you—will you, really?" said Talbot, who seemed quite overwhelmed at this unexpected offer. "Then you have your human weakness, after all, have you, Brooke? You will not sacrifice me to a punctilio, will you? you will not let your poor Talbot go away all alone?"
"No," said Brooke, softly, "I will not let my Talbot go away all alone."
Talbot cast a swift glance at him, as if to read his soul. Brooke's eye met hers, but only for an instant. Then he looked away. Again there was quick and active within him that old vigilant feeling that kept him on guard against being surprised and overpowered by passion. Within his heart there had already been a fierce struggle between love and honor. Love had once conquered, and that completely; but the appearance of Dolores had roused his conscience, and made him once more aware of the bond that lay in his plighted word. Could he again break that word? Could he sacrifice his honor for good almost in the very presence of her whom he supposed to be his loving and faithful Dolores? Could he do such a deed as this, and sully his soul even for Talbot? Yet, on the other hand, how could he bring himself to give her up? Give her up—the "lad Talbot," whom he loved as he had never loved any other human being! How could he? And thus love drew him impetuously in one direction, while duty sternly and imperiously drove him back; and so there went on in the breast of this newspaper correspondent a struggle the like of which does not often come within the experience of gentlemen of the press.
"You will see me as far as the tower?" said Talbot, pathetically.
"Yes," murmured Brooke.
"And there," continued Talbot, in the same tone, "we can say to one another our last farewells."
Brooke said nothing. The struggle still raged within him, and was as far from a decisive end as ever. The prospect of parting with Talbot filled him with a sense of horrible desolation, and the one idea now in his mind was that of accompanying her wherever she might go. He did not look far into the future. His plans were bounded by that tower to which Talbot was going. This much he might do without any hesitation. It seemed to him no more than Talbot's due. She only wanted to go as far as that. She wished to be out of the reach of Rivers. She didn't know the way there. He could certainly help her thus far; in fact, it would be impossible for him not to do that much. If Dolores herself were present, he thought, she could not object; in fact, she could do nothing else but approve.
Silence now followed, which lasted for some time, and at length Talbot said, with a heavy sigh,
"How strange it is, and how sad! isn't it, Brooke?"
"What?" said Brooke.
"To bid good-bye."
Brooke was silent.
"To bid good-bye," repeated Talbot, "and never meet again!"
Brooke drew a long breath, looked at Talbot, and then looked away.
"Shall we, Brooke?" asked Talbot.
"Shall we what?" said Brooke, harshly.
"Shall we ever meet again?"
"How do I know?" said Brooke, snappishly.
"And yet you gave your life for me," said Talbot, pensively.
"I didn't," said Brooke. "It was you that gave your life for me."
"The offer was made," said Talbot, mournfully, "but it wasn't accepted. I wish now that the offer had been accepted."
Brooke raised his head and looked at her with his pale, haggard face, whereon was still the impression of that great agony through which he had so lately passed. He looked at her with all his unspeakable love in his earnest, yearning gaze.
"Do you really wish that, Talbot?"
"I do," said she, sadly.
"Oh, my darling!" cried Brooke—"my own love, and my only love! What shall I do? Help me to decide."
He caught her in his arms and held her pressed convulsively to his heart, while Talbot laid her head on his shoulder and wept.
At length they rose to go.
Brooke was conscious of a sense of profound relief as he went out of the castle and away from Dolores.
On reaching the gate, Brooke explained to the guard that he and the lady were going out for a little walk.
The guard suggested that there might be danger.
Brooke said that he was not going far away, and that he would be back. In this he was not deceiving them, for he himself thought that he would be coming back again. He had a vague idea of keeping Talbot in the tower, and conveying her food, etc., from the castle, as he had done once before.
He now passed through the gates, accompanied by Talbot. The course which he took was the same that he had taken on the occasion of his first visit to the Carlists in his disguise of priest. After walking for some distance they descended into the chasm, and at length reached the bottom. By this time it was dusk, and twilight was coming on rapidly.
They then began the ascent, and reached the tower without any difficulty.
Here they paused to take breath.
But no sooner had they stood still than they were aware of a noise without. It was a noise rather distant, yet well defined, and sounded as if a multitude were approaching the place.
"Some one's coming," said Talbot.
"Yes," said Brooke; "we must go back."
They hurried back. But as they stood at the opening they heard something which once more startled them.
There were voices and footsteps down the chasm, as of some one coming up the pathway.
"We are pursued!" said Brooke.
"We are captured!" said Talbot; and then she added, as she took Brooke's hands in hers, "But oh, Brooke, how I should love to be captured, if you are only captured with me!"
Brooke said nothing, but a thrill of joy passed through him at the thought.