In Kedar's Tents

Front matter

WORKS BY THE SAME AUTHOR. THE SOWERS. 15th Edition. Crown 8vo. 6s. THE GREY LADY. Square 16mo. 4s. AUo a New Edition, with 12 Illustrations by Arthur Kackhaju. Crown Svo. Gs. [In Ocloler. WITH EDGED TOOLS. Fcp. 8vo. boards, pictorial cover, 2s. ; or, limp red cloth, 2s. Gd. THE SLAVE OF THE LAMP. Fcp. 8vo. boards, pictorial cover, 2s. ; or, limp led cloth, 2s. Gd. FROM ONE "GENERATION TO ANOTHER. Fcp. 8vo. boards, pictorial cover, 2s.; or, limp red cloth, 2s. Gd. London SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 Waterloo Place. EY HENRY SETON MEEEIMAN •AUTHOR OF ' THE SOWERS ' ' WITH EDGED TOOLS ' ETC LONDON SMITH, ELDER, & CO., 15 WATERLOO PLACE 1897 [All rights reserved] CONTENTS 1'HAPTER TAGE I. One Soweth 1 II. Another Eeapeth 11 III. Like Ships upon the Sea 23 IV. Le Premier Pas 34 V. Contraband 48 YI. At Ronda 59 VII.

In a Moorish Garden 1) VIII. The Love Letter 82 IX. A War of Wit 94 X. TnE City of Discontent 105 XI. A Tangled Web 117 XII. On TnE Toledo Road 129 XIII. A Wise Ignoramus 140 XIV. A Weight of Evidence 151 XV. An Ultimatum 163 XVI. In Honour 174 XVII. In Madrid CONTENTS VI CHArTER PAGB XVIII. In Toledo 197 XIX. Concepcion takes the Road .... 208 XX. On the Talavera Road 220 XXI. A Cross-Examination 231 XXII. Reparation 242 XXIII. Larralde's Price 254 XXIV. Priestcraft 265 XXV. Swordcraft 276 XXVI. Womancraft 287 XXVII. A Night Journey 298 XXVIII. The City of Strife 309 XXIX. Midnight and Dawn 320 XXX. The Dawn of Peace IN KEDAE'S TENTS

Chapter I Oxe Soweth

' If it be a duty to respect other men's claims, so also is it a duty to maintain our own.' It is in the staging of Ler comedies that fate shows herself superior to mere human invention. While we, with careful regard to scenery, place our conventional puppets on the stage and bid them play their old old parts in a manner as ancient, she rings up the curtain and starts a tragedy on a scene that has obviously been set by the carpenter for a farce. She deals out the parts with a fine inconsistency, and the jolly-faced little man is cast to play Romeo, while the poetic youth with lantern-jaw and an impaired digestion finds no Juliet to match his love. Fate, with that playfulness which some take too seriously or quite amiss, set her queer stage as long B ago as 1838 for the comedy of certain lives, and rang up the curtain one dark evening on no fitter scene than the high road from Gateshead to Durham.

It was raining hard, and a fresh breeze from the south-east swept a salt rime from the North Sea across a tract of land as bare and bleak as the waters of that grim ocean. A hard, cold land this, where the iron that has filled men's purses has also entered their souls. There had been a great meeting at Chester-le-Street' of those who were at this time beginning to be known as Chartists, and, the Act having been lately passed that torchlight meetings were illegal, this assembly had gathered by the light of a waning moon long since hidden by the clouds. Amid the storm of wind and rain, orators had expounded views as wild as the night itself, to which the hard-visaged sons of Northumbria had listened with grunts of approval or muttered words of discontent. A dangerous game to play — this stirring up of the people's heart, and one that may at any moment turn to the deepest earnest.

Few thought at this time that the movement awakening in the working centres of the North and Midlands was destined to spread with the strange rapidity of popular passion — to spread and live for a decade. Few of the Chartists expected to see the fulfilment of half of their desires. Yet, to-day, a moiety of the People's Charter has been granted. These voices ONE SOWETII 3 crying in the night demanded an extended suffrage, vote by ballot, and freedom for rich and poor alike to sit in Parliament. Within the scope of one reign these demands have been granted. The meeting at Chester-le-Street was no different from a hundred others held in England at the same time. It was illegal, and yet the authorities dared not to pronounce it so. It might prove dangerous to those taking part in it. Lawyers said that the leaders laid themselves open to the charge of high treason.

In this assembly as in others there were wirepullers — men playing their own game, and from the safety of the rear pushing on those in front. With one of these we have to do. With his mistake Fate raised the curtain, and on the horizon of several lives arose a cloud no bigger than a man's hand. Geoffrey Homer lived before his time, insomuch as he was a gentleman-Radical. He was clever, and the world heeded not. He was brilliant, well educated, capable of great achievements, and the world refused to be astonished. Here were the makings of a malcontent. A well-born Radical is one whom the world has refused to accept at his own valuation. A wise man is ready to strike a bargain with Fate. The wisest are those who ask much and then take half. It is the coward who asks too little, and the fool who imagines that he will receive without demanding.

B Horner had thrown in his lot with the Chartists in that spirit of pique which makes a man marry the wrong woman because the light one will have none of him. At the Chester-le-Street meeting he had declared himself an upholder of moral persuasion, while in his heart he pandered to those who knew only of physical force and placed their reliance thereon. He had come from Durham with a contingent of malcontents, and was now returning thither on foot in company with the local leaders. These were intelligent mechanics seeking clumsily and blindly enough what they knew to be the good of their fellows. At their heels tramped the rank and file of the great movement. The assembly was a subtle foreshadowing of things to come — of Newport and the march of twenty thousand men, of violence and bloodshed, of strife between brethren, and of justice nonplussed and hesitating.

The toil-worn miners were mostly silent, their dimly enlightened intellects uneasily stirred by the words they had lately heard — their stubborn hearts full of a great hope with a minute misgiving at the back of it. With this dangerous material Geoffrey Horner proposed to play his game. Suddenly a voice was raised. ' Mates,' it cried, at the cross-roads, ' let's go and smash Pleydell's windows ! ' And a muttered acquiescence to the proposal swept ONE SOWETH 5 through the moving mass like a sullen breeze through reeds. The desire for action rustled among these men of few words and mighty arms. Homer hurriedly consulted his colleagues. Was it wise to attempt to exert an authority which was merely nominal ? The principles of Chartism were at this time to keep within the limits of the law, and yet to hint, when such a course was safe, that stronger measures lay behind mere words.

Their fatal habit was to strike softly. In peace and war, at home and abroad, there is but one humane and safe rule : Hesitate to strike — strike hard. Sir John Pleydell was a member of that Parliament which had treated the Charter with contempt. He was one of those who had voted with the majority against the measures it embodied. In addition to these damn ing facts, he was a large colliery owner, and a local Tory of some renown. An ambitious man, as the neighbours said, who wished to leave his son a peerage, Sir John Pleydell was known to be a cold and calcu lating speculator, originally a solicitor in Newcastle, pausing to help no man in his steady career of self advancement. To the minds of the rabble this magnate represented the tyranny against which their protest was raised. Geoffrey Horner looked on him as a political opponent and a dangerous member of the winning party.

The blow was easy to strike. Horner IN KEDAE'S TENTS hesitated — at the cross roads of other lives than his own — and held his tongue. The suggestion of the unknown humorist in the crowd commended itself to the more energetic of the party, who immediately turned towards the by-road leading to Dene Hall. The others — the minority — followed as minorities do, because they distrusted themselves. Some one struck up a song with words lately published in the ' Northern Liberator ' and set to a well-known local air. The shooting party assembled at Dene Hall was still at the dinner table when the malcontents entered the park, and the talk of coverts and guns ceased suddenly at the sound of their rough voices. Sir John Pleydell, an alert man still, despite his grey hair and drawn, careworn face, looked up sharply.

He had been sitting silently fingering the stem of his wineglass — a habit of his when the ladies quitted the room — and, although he had shot as well as, perhaps better than, any present, had taken but little part in the conver sation. He had, in fact, only half listened, and when a rare smile passed across his grey face it invariably owed its existence to some sally made by his son, Alfred Pleydell, gay, light-hearted, debonnaire, at the far end of the table. When Sir John's thoughtful eyes rested on his motherless son, a dull and suppressed light gleamed momentarily beneath his heavy lids. ONE SOWETII 7 Superficial observers said that John Pleydell was an ambitious man ; ' not for himself,' added the few who saw deeper. When his quick mind now took in the import of the sound that broke the outer silence of the night, Sir John's glance sought his son's face.

In moments of alarm the glance flies to where the heart is. ' What is that ? ' asked Alfred Pleydell, standing up, ' The Chartists,' said Sir John. Alfred looked round. He was a soldier, though the ink had hardly dried upon the parchment that made him one — the only soldier in the room. ' We are eleven here,' he said, ; and two men down stairs — some of you fellows have your valets too — say fifteen in all. We cannot stand this, you know.' As he spoke the first volley of stones crashed through the windows, and the broken glass rattled to the floor behind the shutters. The cries of the ladies in the drawing-room be heard, and all the men sprang to their feet. With blazing eyes Alfred Pleydell ran to the door, but his father was there before him. ' Not you,' said the elder man, quiet but a little paler than usual ; ' I will go and speak to them.

They will not dare to touch me. They are probably running away by this time.' ' Then we'll run aster 'em ,' answered Alfred with a fine spirit, and something in his attitude, in the ring of his voice, awoke that demon of combativeness which lies dormant in men of the Anglo-Saxon race. ' Come on, you fellows ! ' cried the boy with a queer glad laugh, and without knowing that he did it Sir John stood aside, his heart warm with a sudden pride, his blood stirred by something that had not moved it these thirty years. The guests crowded out of the room — old men wrho should have known better — laughing as they threw aside their dinner napkins. What a strange thing is man, peaceful through long years, and at a moment's notice a mere fighting devil. ' Come on, we'll teach them to break windows ! ' repeated Alfred Pleydell, running to the stick rack.

The rain rattled on the skylight of the square hall, and the wind roared down the open chimney. Among the men hastily arming themselves with heavy sticks and cramming caps upon their heads were some who had tasted of rheumatism, but they never thought of an overcoat. ' We'll know each other by our shirt fronts,' said a quiet man who was standing on a chair in order to reach an Indian club suspended on the wall. Alfred was at the door leading through to the servants' quarters, and his summons brought several men from the pantry and kitchens. ONE SOWETH 9 1 Come on ! ' he cried, ' take anything you can find — stick or poker — yes, and those old guns, use 'em like a club, hit very hard and very often. We'll charge the devils — there's nothing like a charge — come on ! ' And he was already oat of the door with a dozen at his heels.

The change from the lighted rooms to the outer darkness made them pause a moment, during which time the defenders had leisure to group themselves around Alfred Pleydell. A hoarse shout, which indeed drowned Geoffrey Homer's voice, showed where the assailants stood. Horner had found his tongue after the first volley of stones. It was the policy of the Chartist leaders and wirepullers to suggest rather than demonstrate physical force. Enough had been done to call attention to the Chester-le-Street meeting, and give it the desired prominence in the eyes of the nation. ' Get back, go to your homes ! ' he was shouting, with upraised arms, when the hoarse cry of his adherents and the flood of light from the opened door made him turn hastily. In a moment he saw the meaning of this development, but it was too late.

With a cheer, Alfred Pleydell, little more than a boy, led the charge, and seeing Horner in front, ran at him with upraised stick. Horner half warded the blow, which came whistling down his own stick and paralysed his thumb. He returned the stroke with a sudden fury, striking Pleydell full on the head. Then, because he had a young wife and child at home, he pushed his way through the struggling crowd, and ran away in the darkness. As he ran he could hear his late adherents dispersing in all directions, like sheep before a dog. He heard a voice calling : ' Alfred ! Alfred ! ' And Horner, who an hour — nay, ten minutes earlier had had no thought of violence, ran his fastest along the road by which he had lately come. His heart was as water within his breast, and his staring eyes played their part mechanically.

He did not fall, but he noted nothing, and had no knowledge whither he was running. Alfred Pleydell lay quite still on the lawn in front of his father's house.

Chapter II Another

REAI>ETH ' Attempt the end, and never stand to doubt.' During the course of a harum-scarum youth in the city of Dublin certain persons had been known to predict that Mr. Frederick Conyngham had a future before him. Mostly pleasant-spoken Irish persons these, who had the racial habit of saying that which is likely to be welcome. Many of them added, ' the young divil,' under their breath, in a pious hope of thereby cleansing their souls from guilt. ' I suppose I'm idle, and what is worse, I know I'm a fool,' said Conyngham himself to his tutor when that gentleman, with a toleration which was undeserved, took him severely to task before sending him up for the Bar examination. The tutor said nothing, but he suspected that this, his wildest pupil, was no fool. Truth to tell, Frederick Conyngham had devoted little thought to the matter of which he spoke, namely, himself, and was perhaps none the worse for that.

A young man who thinks too often usually falls into the error of also thinking too much, of himself. The examination was, however, safely passed, and in due course Frederick was called to the Irish Bar, where a Queen's Counsel, with an accent like rich wine, told him that he was now a gintleman, and entitled so to call himself. All these events were left behind, and Conyngham, sitting alone in his rooms in Norfolk Street, Strand, three days after the breaking of Sir John Pleydell's windows, was engaged in realising that the predicted future was still in every sense before him, and in nowise nearer than it had been in his mother's lifetime. This realisation of an unpleasant fact appeared in no way to disturb his equanimity, for, as he knocked his pipe against the bars of the fire, he murmured a popular air in a careless voice.

The firelight showed his face to be pleasant enough in a way that left the land of his birth undoubted. Blue eyes, quick and kind ; a square chin, closely curling hair, and square shoulders bespoke an Irishman. Something, however, in the cut of his lips — something close and firm — suggested an admixture of Anglo-Saxon blood. The man looked as if he might have had an English mother. It was perhaps this formation of the mouth that had led those pleasant-spoken persons to name to his relatives their conviction that Conyngham had a future before him. The best liars are those who base their fancy upon fact. They knew that the ordinary thoroughbred Irishman has usually a cheerful enough life before him, but not that which is vaguely called a future. Fred Conyngham looked like a man who could hold to his purpose, but at this moment he also had the unfortunate appearance of not possessing one to hold to.

He knocked the ashes from his pipe, and held the hot briar bowl against the ear of a sleeping fox terrier, which animal growled, without moving, in a manner that suggested its possession of a sense of humour and a full comprehension of tbe harmless practical joke. A moment later the dog sat up and listened with an interest that gradually increased until the door opened and Geoffrey Horner came into the room. ' Faith, it's Horner ! ' said Conyngham. ' Where are you from ? ' ' The North 'Ah — sit down. What have you been doing up there — tub-thumping ? ' Horner came forward and sat down in the chair indicated. He looked five years older than when he had last been there. Conyngham glanced at his friend, who was staring into the fire. ' Edith all right ? ' he asked carelessly. ' Yes.' 1 And — the little chap ? ' ' Yes.' Conyngham glanced at his companion again.

Horner's eyes had the hard look that comes from hopelessness ; his lips were dry and white. He wore the air of one whose stake in the game of life was heavy, who played that game nervously. For this was an ambitious man with wife and child whom he loved. Conyngham's attitude towards Fate was in strong contrast. He held his head up and faced the world without encumbrance, without a settled ambition, with out any sense of responsibility at all. The sharp-eyed dog on the hearthrug looked from one to the other. A moment before, the atmosphere of the room had been one of ease and comfortable assurance — an atmosphere that some men, without any warrant or the justification of personal success or distinction, seem to. carry with them through life. Since Horner had crossed the threshold the ceaseless hum of the streets seemed to be nearer, the sound of it louder in the room ; the rest lessness of that great strife stirred the air.

The fox terrier laid himself on the hearthrug again, but instead of sleeping watched his two human companions. Conyngham filled his pipe. He turned to the table where the matchbox stood at his elbow, took it up, rattled it, and laid it down. He pressed the tobacco hard with his thumb, and, turning to Horner, said sharply : ' What is it ? ' ' I don't know yet ; ruin, I think.' ' Nonsense, man ! ' said Conyngham cheerily. ' There is no such thing in this world. At least, the jolliest fellows I know are bankrupts, or no better. Look at me : never a brief ; literary contributions returned with thanks ; balance at the bank, seventeen pounds ten shillings ; balance in hand, none ; debts, the Lord only knows ! Look at me ! I'm happy enough.' ' Yes, you're a lonely devil.' Conyngham looked at his friend with inquiry in his gay eyes. ' Ah ! perhaps so.

I live alone, if that is what you mean. But as for being lonely — no, hang it ! I have plenty of friends, especially at dividend time.' ' You have nobody depending on you,' said Homer with the irritability of sorrow. ' Because nobody is such a fool. On the other hand, I have nobody to care a twopenny curse what becomes of me. Same thing, you see, in the end. Come, man, cheer up. Tell me what is wrong. Seven teen pounds ten shillings is not exactly wealth, but if you want it you know it is there, eh ? ' ' I do not want it, thanks,' replied the other. ' Seventeen hundred would be no good to me.' He paused, biting his under lip and staring with hard eyes into the fire. ' Read that,' he said at length, and handed Conyng ham a cutting from a daily newspaper. The younger man read, without apparent interest, an account of the Chester-le-Street meeting, and the subsequent attack on Sir John Pleydell's house. ' Yes,' he commented, ' the usual thing.

Brave words followed by a cowardly deed. What in the name of fortune you were doing in that cjalere you yourself know best. If these are politics, Horner, I say drop them. Politics are a stick, clean enough at the top, but you've got hold of the wrong end. Young Pleydell was hurt, I see — " seriously, it is feared.'" ' Yes,' said Horner significantly ; and his companion, after a quick look of surprise, read the slip of paper carefully a second time. Then he looked up and met Homer's eyes. ' Gad ! ' he exclaimed in a whisper. Homer said nothing. The dog moved restlessly, and for a moment the whole world — tbat sleepless world of the streets— seemed to hold its breath. ' And if he dies,' said Conyngham at length. ' Exactly so,' answered the other with a laugh — of scaffold mirth. Conyngham turned in his chair and sat with his elbows on his knees, his face resting on his closed fists staring at the worn old hearthrug.

Thus they remained for some minutes. ' What are you thinking about ? ' asked Horner at length. ' Nothing — got nothing to think with. You know that, Geoffrey. Wish I had — never wanted it as I do at this moment. I'm no good, you know that. You must go to some one with brains — some clever devil.' As he spoke he turned and took up the paper again, reading the paragraph slowly and carefully. Horner looked at him with a breathless hunger in his eyes. At some moments it is a crime to think, for we never know but that thought may be transmitted without so much as a whisper. ' " The miners were accompanied by a gentleman from London," ' Conyngham read aloud, ' " a barrister, it is supposed, whose speech was a feature of the Chester le-Street meeting. This gentleman's name is quite unknown, nor has his whereabouts yet been discovered.

His sudden disappearance lends likelihood to the report that this unknown agitator actually struck the blow which injured Mr. Alfred Pleydell. Every exertion is being put forth by the authorities to trace the man who is possibly a felon and certainly a coward." ' Conyngham laid aside the paper and again looked at Horner, who did not meet his glance nor ask now of what he was thinking. Horner, indeed, had his own thoughts, perhaps of the fireside — modest enough, but G happy as love and health could make it — upon which his own ambition had brought down the ruins of a hundred castles in the air — thoughts he scarce could face, no doubt, and yet had no power to drive away, of the young wife whose world was that same fireside ; of the child, perhaps, whose coming had opened for a time the door of Paradise.

Conyngham broke in upon these meditations with a laugh. ' I have it ! ' he cried. ' It's as simple as the alpha bet. This paper says it was a barrister — a man from London — a malcontent, a felon, a coward. Dammy, Geoff— that's me ! ' He leapt to his feet. ' Get out of the way, Tim ! ' he cried to the dog, pushing the animal aside and standing on the hearthrug. ' Listen to this,' he went on. ' This thing, like the others, will blow over. It will be forgotten in a week. Another meeting will be held — say in South Wales, more windows will be broken, another young man's head cracked, and Chester-le-Street (God-forsaken place, never heard of it !) will be forgotten.' Horner sat looking with hollow eyes at the young Irishman, his lips twitching, his fingers interlocked there is nothing makes so complete a coward of a man as a woman's love.

Conyngham laughed as the notion unfolded itself in his mind. He might, as he himself had said, be of no great brain power, but he was at all events a man and a brave one. He stood a full six foot, and looked down at his companion, who sat white faced and shrinking. ' It is quite easy,' he said, ' for me to disappear in such a manner as to arouse suspicion. I have nothing to keep me here ; my briefs — well, the Solicitor- General can have 'em ! I have no ties — nothing to keep me in any part of the world. When young Pleydell is on his feet again, and a few more windows have been broken, and nine days have elapsed, the wonder will give place to another, and I can return to my — practice.' ' I couldn't let you do it.' ' Oh yes, you could,' said Conyngham with the quickness of his race to spy out his neighbour's vulnerable point. ' For the sake of Edith and the little devil.' Horner sat silent, and after a moment Conyngham went on. ' All we want to do is to divert suspicion from you now — to put them on a false scent, for they must have one of some sort.

When they find that they cannot catch me they will forget all about it.' Horner shuffled in his seat. This was nothing but detection of the thoughts that had passed through his own mind. c2 ' It is easily enough done,' went on the Irishman. 'A paragraph here and there in some of the newspapers ; a few incriminating papers left in these rooms, which are certain to be searched. I have a bad name — an Irish dog goes about the world with a rope round his neck. If I am caught it will not be for some time, and then I can get out of it somehow — an alibi or something. I'll get a brief at all events. By that time the scent will be lost, and it will be all right. Come, Geoff, cheer up ! A man of your sort ought not to be thrown by a mischance like this.' He stood with his legs apart, his hands thrust deep into his pockets, a gay laugh on his lips, and much discernment in his eyes. ' Oh, d n Edith ! ' he added after a pause, see ing that his efforts met with no response. 'D n that child !

You used to have some pluck, Horner.' Homer shook his head and made no answer, but his very silence was a point gained. He no longer protested nor raised any objection to his companion's hare-brained scheme. The thing was feasible, and he knew it. Conyngham went on to set forth his plans, which with characteristic rapidity of thought he evolved as he spoke. ' Above all,' he said, 'we must be prompt. I must disappear to-night, the paragraphs must be in tomorrow's papers. I think I'll go to Spain. The Carlists seem to be making things lively there. You know, Horner, I was never meant for a wig and gown ■ — there's no doubt about that. I shall have a splendid time of it out there ' He stopped, meeting a queer look in Homer's eyes, who sat leaning forward and searching his face with jealous glance. ' I was wondering,' said the other, with a, pale smile, ' if you were ever in love with Edith.' ' No, my good soul, I was not,' answered Conyng ham, with perfect carelessness, ' though I knew her long before you did.' He paused, and a quick thought flashed through his mind that some men are seen at their worst in adversity.

He was ready enough to find excuses for Horner, for men are strange in the gift of their friend ship, often bestowing it where they know it is but ill deserved. He rattled on with unbroken gaiety, unfolding plans which in their perfection of detail suggested a previous experience in outrunning the constable. While they were still talking a mutual friend came in — a quick-spoken man already beginning to be known as a journalist of ability. They talked on indifferent topics for some time. Then the newcomer said jerkily : ' Heard the news ? ' ' No,' answered Conyngham. 'Alfred Pleydell — young fellow who resisted the Chartist rioters at Durham — died yesterday morning.' Frederick Conyngham had placed himself in front of Horner, who was still seated in the low chair by the fire. He found Homer's toe with his heel. ' Is that so ? ' he said gravely. ' Then I'm off.' ' What do you mean ? ' asked the journalist with a quick look — the man had the manner of a ferret. ' Nothing, only I'm off, that's all, old man.