



Produced by Al Haines.




[Illustration: Cover art]




[Illustration: "A WILD PASSION OF EXCITEMENT, UPROAR, AND TUMULT
POSSESSED THE VAST AUDIENCE."--_Page_ 216.]




                              *SARITA, THE
                                CARLIST*


                                   BY

                          ARTHUR W. MARCHMONT



           _Author of "In the Name of a Woman," "For Love or
                   Crown," "By Right of Sword," etc._



                                TORONTO
                             McLEOD & ALLEN
                               PUBLISHERS




          Entered according to Act of Parliament of Canada, in
         the year nineteen hundred and two, by McLEOD & ALLEN,
                   at the Department of Agriculture.




                              *CONTENTS.*

CHAPTER.

      I. The Victim of a Woman's Preference
     II. The Gate of Hazard
    III. Carlists
     IV. Sarita Castelar
      V. The Explanation
     VI. "Counting All Renegades Lovers of Satan"
    VII. Sarita, the Carlist
   VIII. Sebastian Quesada
     IX. The Quesada Version
      X. In London
     XI. "The Ways of the Carlists Will be Hard"
    XII. Sarita's Welcome
   XIII. The Fight
    XIV. A Coward's Story
     XV. The Abduction
    XVI. After the Rescue
   XVII. War to the Knife
  XVIII. At the Opera House
    XIX. A Carlist Gathering
     XX. At the Hotel De l'Opera
    XXI. Sarita's Flight
   XXII. An Unexpected Meeting
  XXIII. News of Sarita
   XXIV. A Check
    XXV. At Calvarro's
   XXVI. The Plea of Love
  XXVII. Sarita Hears the Truth
 XXVIII. How Luck Can Change
   XXIX. Quesada Again
    XXX. Suspense
   XXXI. At the Palace
  XXXII. Livenza's Revenge
 XXXIII. The Hut on the Hillside
  XXXIV. A King's Riddle




                                *SARITA,
                              THE CARLIST*



                              *CHAPTER I*

                  *THE VICTIM OF A WOMAN'S PREFERENCE*


If A won't marry B, ought C to be exiled?

Stated in that bald fashion the problem looks not unlike an equation
that has lost caste and been relegated to a nonsense book, or lower
still, to some third-rate conundrum column.  And yet it was the real
crux of a real situation, and meant everything to me, Ferdinand
Carbonnell, the victim of a woman's preference.

It came about in this way.  The Glisfoyle peerage, as everyone knows, is
only a poor one, and originality not being a strong point with us,
Lascelles, my elder and only brother, having taken counsel with my
father, fell back upon the somewhat worn device of looking out for a
wife with money.  He was not very successful in the quest, but at length
a desirable quarry was marked down in the person of a Mrs. Abner B.
Curwen, the young widow of an American millionaire; and great
preparations were made to lure her into the net that was spread in the
most open and unabashed manner before her very eyes.

But those eyes--bright, merry, and laughing--had a brain behind them
that was practical and penetrating, and she saw the meshes quite
plainly.  She accepted the hospitality with pleasure, did her best to
make a friend of my only sister, Mercy, was properly subdued, if not
awed, in the presence of my father, and, in fact, did everything
expected of her except the one thing--she would not let Lascelles make
love to her, and completely out-manoeuvred him whenever he tried to
bring matters to a head.

Moreover, a crisis of another kind was in the brewing.  Mrs. Curwen
herself was not an American, but a north-country Englishwoman, who had
used her pretty looks and sharp wits to captivate the rich American, and
she took Mercy into her confidence one day to an extent that had
results.

"I am very fond of you, Mercy dear, and would give much to have you as
my sister; but your brother, Lascelles, is too formal, too stiff in the
backbone, for me.  I have made one marriage for a reason that wasn't
love: but I married an old man; and when I marry again it won't be for
either position or money. I should dearly love to have you for my
sister, as I say, but I could not marry your brother Lascelles.
Ferdinand is just awfully nice--but I suppose he's a dreadful
scapegrace."

I think Mercy laughed hugely at this--her merry heart laughs at most
things--and certainly, when she told me--as being my best particular
chum she was bound to do immediately--we laughed heartily over it
together.

"She's a bright, jolly, little soul and beastly rich, but I'm not having
any," said I, shaking my head.  "I don't want to cut out poor old
Cello"--this was an unrighteous nickname of ours for Lascelles, with a
covert reference to his deep, solemn, twangy voice.  "But you'd better
tell the father."

"You might do worse, Nand," declared my sister. "Her wealth would give
you just the chance you want; and it would be awfully jolly to have a
rich brother, and she's a good sort; and you could settle down and----"

"Don't be a little humbug, Mercy.  She's all right, I daresay; but I'm
not made that way.  If I were going to succeed the father I might think
about selling myself for a good round sum; but no, thank you, I'm not in
the market.  You'd better let Cello and the father know that this little
net of theirs has got fouled;" and with that I dismissed the matter, and
with no thought of trouble went off on a fortnight's visit to an old
Oxford friend.

When I got back to town, however, matters had moved fast, and plans were
cut and dried.  Lascelles had come to the conclusion that if I were out
of the way his suit would prosper, and he had grown to like the little
widow as much as a person of his importance could care for anyone who
did not wear his clothes. My father and he had, therefore, set to work
with a burst of Irish zeal, and had succeeded in getting me made a kind
of probationary attache at the Madrid Embassy; and expected me to be
mightily pleased at the result of their innocent efforts on my behalf.
My father told me the good news on my arrival, and the next morning
there came the official confirmation.

My father was in quite cheerful spirits.

"Your foot is on the ladder, Ferdinand," he said, gleefully.  He was
very partial to this metaphor. Life to him was a maze of ladders,
leading up and down and in all directions, of which, by the way, he had
made very indifferent use.  "You may climb where you will now, my boy.
You've a steady head at times."

"I trust I shall not be dizzied by the giddy height of this position,
sir," I answered, not wholly without guile, for I was not enamoured of
this prospective expatriation in the cause of fraternity.

"I don't think it's a subject for feeble satire," exclaimed Lascelles,
sourly.  "You've not made such a brilliant success of things on your own
account and during your years of vagrancy.  I trust you'll remember who
you are now, and endeavour to do the family credit, and seek to climb
the ladder which our father rightly says is open to you."

"I hope you won't marry a wretched Spanish woman to carry up with you,"
said Mercy, a little pungently.  She resented my exile more than I did.

"Such a remark is scarcely called for, Mercy," said Lascelles, always
glad to pose as the much elder brother, and objecting to any reference
to the subject of marriage at such a moment.  But Mercy was as resentful
as a nettle when handled tactlessly.

"You mean we ought to taboo the subject of marriage just at present.
Very well, dear," she said, demurely and humbly.  My brother frowned and
fidgetted on his chair, while I shut down a smile.

"Madrid has a questionable climate, but I believe it is excellent for
young strong men," said my father, obviously glad that he had not to go.
"It is fortunate you have such a knowledge of Spanish, Ferdinand. It was
that which turned the scale in your favour. Sir John Cullingworth told
me so.  It's what I've always said; all boys should know a language or
two. Always lifts a man a rung or two above the crowd when the moment
comes.  A most valuable mental equipment."

A perfect knowledge of Spanish, the result of years of my boyhood and
youth spent in Spain, was the one ewe lamb of my accomplishments; that,
and a bad pass degree at Oxford constituted the "valuable mental
equipment" of my father's imagination.

"It has come in handy this time, sir," I assented.

"I hope you use less slang in Spanish than in English," said Lascelles,
posing again.

"I'm afraid the prospect of our parting has got on your nerves, Cello."

"I wish you wouldn't be so disgustingly vulgar and personal as to use
that ridiculous nickname for me," he retorted, angrily.

"I wish to see you in the study, Ferdinand, in about a quarter of an
hour.  I have something very important to say to you," interposed my
father, rising to leave the room, as he generally did when my brother
and I looked like having words.

"Very well, sir.  I'll come to you."

"Do you know the news, Nand?" cried Mercy, as soon as the door closed
behind him, and the look of her eye was full of mischief.

"No.  I've only read a couple of newspapers this morning," I answered,
flippantly.

"I don't mean news of the stupid newspaper sort; I mean real, private,
important news.  This will be in the fashionable gossip next week: but
it isn't public yet."

"No--and I'm afraid I'm not very interested in it, either.  Next week I
shall be in Madrid."

"Ah, but this is about Madrid, too," she cried, looking mysterious.

"What do you mean, Mercy?" asked Lascelles, who was of a very curious
turn, and not quick.  "What news is it?"

"It's about Mrs. Curwen, Lascelles.  She is going to stay in Madrid;"
and Mercy pointed the little shaft with a barbed glance that made him
colour with vexation.

"Upon my word, Mercy, you ought to know better. You are abominably rude,
and your manners are unpardonable," he cried, angrily.  "I declare I
won't allow it."

"Allow it?  Why, she didn't tell me she had to ask your permission.
But, of course, I'll tell her she mustn't go," returned Mercy, with such
a fine assumption of innocent misunderstanding that I could not restrain
my laughter.

"It will be a good thing when you are gone, Ferdinand," he turned on me,
wrathfully.  "You only encourage Mercy in these acts of rudeness."

"Don't be a prig, Cello," said I, good humouredly. "You are a good chap
at bottom, and when you don't stick those airs on."

"I shall not stay here to be insulted," he exclaimed, and he retreated,
leaving us in possession of the field.

"That was too bad, Mercy.  You hit him below the belt," I said, when he
had gone.

"But he's just insufferable in those moods, and he gets worse and worse
every week.  And it's horrid of him to drive you away like this.
Positively horrid."

"It's all right, girlie.  I'm not the first man by a good many who has
left his country for his family's good, even to climb the diplomatic
ladder.  And when I've got up a few rungs, as the father calls them, and
can afford to have an establishment, you shall come and boss it, and
we'll have a high old time."

"Yes, but that's just it, Nand."

"What's just it?"

"Why, of course, you're just the dearest brother in the world and
awfully good at Spanish and all that, but I don't believe you'll be a
bit of good as a diplomatist; and you'll never get on enough to have any
place for me to boss."

"What a flatterer you are!  For telling the beastly, barefaced, ugly
truth, commend me to sisters," and I laughed.  "But I believe you're
right; and I shall probably never earn bread and cheese rind as a
tactician. But I'll have a good time all the same."

"Oh isn't that like a man!  For sheer Christian unselfishness, commend
me to--brothers."

"A fair hit, and a bull's-eye, too.  But we've always been good chums,
you and I, and what's the good of chums if they can't slang each other?
That's the test of chumminess, say I.  I wish Cello was a bit of a chum
for you."

"Poor Cello," and Mercy smiled at the notion.  "But I think the whole
thing's just horrid," she added; and for all her smiles she was not far
off tears.  That seems to be the way with girls of her sort; so I made
some silly joke and laughed, and then kissed her and went off to the
study.

There was never anything jocular about my father; and now I found him
preternaturally grave and serious. He thought it necessary to improve
the occasion with a very solemn lecture about the start of my career,
and gave me heaps of good advice, mentioned the moderate allowance he
could make me--small enough for me to remember without any
difficulty--and then came to the pith of what was in his thoughts.

"I think it necessary to tell you, now, Ferdinand, a rather painful
chapter of our family history.  You know most good families have these
things; and as it concerns some relatives of ours in Madrid, and as you
can act for me out there, it's altogether fortunate you are going."

"Relatives in Madrid, sir!" I exclaimed, in considerable astonishment.

"I said Madrid, Ferdinand; and really you cannot learn too soon that
concealment of surprise--and indeed of any kind of feeling--is one of
the essentials for diplomatic success."  He said this in his most
didactic manner, and I assumed a properly stolid expression, resolved to
make no further sign of surprise let the story be what it might.

"You needn't look like a block of wood," was his next comment; and I
guessed that he was in doubt how to put the matter, and therefore vented
the irritation on me.  "The fact is," he continued, after a pause, "that
you had another uncle beside the late peer; junior to both Charles and
myself.  He lived a very wild, adventurous life--that's where you get
your love of wandering--and he had a very stormy time in Spain. He's
been dead many years now, poor fellow, and the circumstances are all
strange and, I suppose I must say, romantic."  He said this regretfully,
as though romance had a taint of vulgarity unworthy of the peerage.

"Yes, sir."

"Well, it was the result largely of a most extraordinary marriage he
made.  He was in Spain under an assumed name--the truth is he had made
such a mess of things here that the family disowned him, and having, as
you have, a splendid knowledge of Spanish, he took a Spanish name--Ramon
Castelar.  His own name was Raymond.  The girl was of the powerful
family of the Quesadas; but knowing him only as an adventurer and being
quite ignorant of his high birth, they turned their backs on him and
wouldn't hear of a marriage. Raymond was a daredevil in his way,
however, and the thing ended in a runaway match.  A most unfortunate
matter."

My father spoke of it as a quite deplorable thing, but I admired my
uncle as about the pluckiest Carbonnell I had yet heard of.  We all have
our own points of view, however.

"The end was a perfect tragedy, Ferdinand, an awful affair.  The
Quesadas tried by every means to get your uncle's wife away from him and
in the end succeeded.  He was in England at the time, and when he got
back to Madrid, he found his wife shut up as a lunatic, his two
children--a boy, Ramon, and a girl, Sarita, named after her mother--gone
and himself proscribed.  These big Spanish families have enormous
privileges, you know; far greater than we have here. Well, he never saw
her again.  She died soon after, under most suspicious circumstances,
and it seemed to quite break poor Raymond's life.  He lived only for
revenge, and became a moody, stern, utterly desperate man; but he could
not fight against them.  He found one chance of partial revenge at the
time of a Carlist rising.  He got hold of the children in some way; and
I'm bound to say, although he was my own brother, it was a most
unfortunate thing for them.  He died soon afterwards, but not before he
had ruined the boy's character.  The lad was to have been a priest--the
Quesadas were seeing to that--but he broke through all control some
years ago, and--well, they tell me there is scarcely a crime forbidden
in the Decalogue he hasn't committed.  The least of his offences is that
he is a Carlist of the Carlists; he has more than once attempted
violence against the Quesada family, and--in fact I don't know what he
hasn't done.  What I do know is that he has involved his sister, Sarita,
in some of his confounded Carlist plottings, and it seems to be a
desperate entanglement altogether."

"Do the Quesadas know of the relationship, sir?"

"No, no, thank goodness, no.  At least I think and hope not.  There's
only one person in Madrid knows of that; a Madame Chansette.  She is a
Quesada, it's true; but she married against the family's wish.  She
married a wealthy Frenchman, but is now a widow, and she went back to
Madrid some time ago, really to try and take care of Sarita.  The family
have behaved abominably, I must say; and from what she tells me there
seems to be no doubt that they've appropriated all the children's
fortune.  Well, Madame Chansette has written several times, and lately
has pressed me to go over and consult with her about the children's
future.  She is afraid there will be some big trouble; and what you've
got to do, Ferdinand, is just to take my place in the affair.  I can't
go, of course; and you've got a head on your shoulders if you like to
use it: and you can just take a careful look into things and see what
had best be done."

"Then I suppose neither the brother nor sister knows about us?"

"God forbid," cried my father, fervently.  "Unless, of course, Madame
Chansette has told them.  But she's a discreet woman, although she is
Spanish; and I don't think she'd be so stupid as to tell them."

"It's a rum kettle of fish," I said, meditatively; and my father winced
at the expression.

"What Lascelles said is rather true, you know, Ferdinand.  You are very
slangy in your conversation.  I really think, now that you have to climb
the diplomatic ladder, you should try to curb the habit.  Elegance of
diction stands for so much in diplomacy."

"It is certainly a very involved situation, sir, was what I meant," I
answered, gravely.

"That's much better, Ferdinand, and quite as expressive.  I wish to feel
proud of you, my boy, and hope you will be very successful.  I have
great trust and faith in you, I have indeed, if you will only try always
to do your best."

"I will try to be worthy of the trust, sir," I said, earnestly, for he
was more moved than I had ever seen him.

"I am sure you will, Ferdinand, God bless you;" and he gave me his hand.
Then I was guilty of an anti-climax.

"I think I should like to say, sir, that I know, of course, the reason
why my absence is desirable, and I hope that it will serve its purpose.
I am not in the least troubled about going."

"I am glad to hear that, my boy.  Of course, Lascelles must make a
wealthy marriage if possible. We've all known the--the limitations
inevitable where there's a title without adequate resources to maintain
one's position.  It makes such a difference in the world. And, of
course, if the thing goes all right, as I trust it will, and you find
Madrid unsupportable, why, you must come