Ronald Morton; or, the Fire Ships: A Story of the Last Naval War

by William Henry Giles Kingston

Now Father Mendez was excessively clever and acute, but Don Anibal Villavicencio’s cunning had been sharpened in the school of adversity. He looked up with an innocent expression of countenance, and asked—

“How do I know that the child you speak of is in existence? Pardon me for putting so rude a question, father. Where is he to be found? Give me particulars which will enable me to judge whether I am making a fair bargain with you.”

The father smiled at Don Anibal’s frankness; he was in no way offended at the doubt cast on his veracity; he liked people to be open with him; it gave him, he thought, more power over them. He knew that the marquis could have no interest in bringing the child from Shetland, and as that island was a long way off, he was not likely to set off there to verify the accounts he might give. He might, therefore, have told him any story he pleased. In this instance, however, as it answered his purpose to speak the truth, seeing that the truth would have more influence with Don Anibal than any tale he could invent, he told him all that had occurred, and gave him a full description of Lunnasting, and its position. The marquis had learnt to conceal his thoughts as well as the priest; he assumed a dull and indifferent air as Father Mendez continued his account.

“I see the justice of your remark, father, and rest assured that I will do my duty,” he answered, with a twirl of his moustache and a stiff bow of the head. “The child is heir, you tell me, to a good property in this far-off island of Shetland, of which till now I never heard; he may well be content with that; indeed it is clear that he would be out of his element as the possessor of an estate like this; besides, as you wisely remark, he will be brought up as an heretic. Yes, father, my conscience is at rest; I feel that I am doing what must be well-pleasing to the church, and you assuredly shall receive the reward you demand.”

“His conscience!—I wonder of what that is composed,” muttered the priest, and then added aloud, “You have not yet decided with regard to the paper I put into your hands, Don Anibal.”

“Well, do as you propose,” answered the marquis. “I hope that you have not been too hard on me, though.”

The priest gave a searching glance at the marquis, and without speaking, left the room. Don Anibal’s countenance did not wear a particularly pleasant expression as his eyes followed the priest.

“I’ll be even with you,” he muttered, as he ground his teeth and shook his clenched fist towards the door at which the priest had retired. “What! Does he think I am fool enough to pay him the enormous sum he demands? He has given me the key to the means of settling the matter in a cheaper way than that. I must, however, in the meantime, keep my plans secret as the grave, or he will manage to counteract them.”

At the end of the time Father Mendez had fixed, he returned, and was highly pleased with the ready acquiescence with which the marquis agreed to his proposals. He then, with a conscience at rest, hastened on to his convent to report his arrival, and to give an account of his proceedings. The marquis waited till he had assured himself that he had without doubt left the neighbourhood, and then set out for Cadiz. He had a mansion in that city where he took up his abode. He had been in his youth at sea, and had still a number of seafaring acquaintance. They were not all of them amongst the most respectable orders of society; perhaps they were the better suited to carry out the object he had in view. He was a cunning man if not a wise one, and knew that he was more likely to succeed by doing things deliberately than in a hurry. He began to frequent places where he was likely to fall in with his old nautical associates, and when he met them he seemed to take great interest in their welfare, and made many inquiries as to their late adventures and mode of life.

War had just broken out between England and France, and all the other nations of Europe were in consequence arming, both afloat and on shore, not knowing when they might be drawn into the vortex of strife.