The Car of Destiny
old Cid, with whom every stone seemed to be associated. This was the city
of the Cid as well as the country of the Cid; and if I had come into my
fatherland as a sightseer, and not as a lover, I should have gone on a
pilgrimage to his tomb at the convent of San Pedro de Cárdeña, only a few
kilometres out of Burgos—that City of Battles.
As it was, I should have to be content with reading about it in some book,
for Carmona would not desert his car to go; and where Carmona went, there
must I go also.
At least I had a cup of coffee at “The Café of the Cid” on my way to the
cathedral; and the first landmark I sought in that triumph of Gothic
grandeur was the coffer of the Cid. I might have hours to wait, I knew,
before the others would come, though in order to reach Valladolid at a
decent hour, they must not delay too long. But sooner or later they would
certainly arrive, for Carmona could not, for shame’s sake, rush Monica out
of Burgos without showing her the glory of Burgos. And meanwhile, for none
save a paltry soul could Time have halted, heavy-footed, as a companion in
that realm of shadowed splendour.
It was the first of the famous cathedrals of Spain on which I, an outcast
son, had set my eyes; and a glimpse of the twin-spires from afar had given
me some inkling of its beauty. Wrapped in sunset flames, I had seen the
towers as if cut in precious stones, chiselled, according to legend by
angels, like a queen’s bracelet, adorned like an old reliquary. I had said
to myself that the vast building was a wild festival in a stone, a bravura
song in architecture. And if I remembered, as I looked, other twin towers
which are the glory of the Rhine, I tried to put the reminiscence away,
because I wanted the cathedrals of Spain to be different from those of any
other country. I wanted them to speak to me with their own national
inspiration. And this morning, as I flitted with the other shadows into
the solemn dusk of the great nave, I was satisfied. I found no German
inspiration here. Each detail struck the same curiously national note,
from the rare iron-work to the octagonal lantern, a miracle of Plateresque
design, which lifted itself, clear and bright, above the centre of the
great church. Perhaps the effect lay partly in the gorgeous colour, colour
never tawdry, never vulgar, as I had seen it sometimes in Italy; or else
in the wonderful reliefs; statues in niches of gold, flowering stones,
arabesques, alabaster columns, richly-toned pictures; but no matter whence
it came, it was there, and could have been nowhere except in Spain.
I wandered from chapel to chapel, saw the strange mummy-like figure of the
Christ of Burgos, supposed to shed blood every Friday; admired the
treasures of the sacristy; and, I am half-ashamed to say, had just
dedicated a candle to propitiate San Cristóbal, when my heart gave a leap
at sight of four persons who appeared from behind the grand coro which
fills the nave.
The old Duchess of Carmona, brown, stout, yet somehow stately, and the
tall figure of Lady Vale-Avon advanced towards me, side by side. Behind
came Monica, fresh and sweet in her white-winged grey hat and travelling
dress, and the Duke of Carmona, dark as a Moor in contrast with her young
fairness.
I dared not break upon her unexpectedly, after my experience of yesterday,
so I turned away, and entering a chapel interested myself in a tomb which
is the cherished jewel of the cathedral.
How long I could have kept my patience under provocation I can’t tell; but
my strength of mind had not been tested for five minutes when I heard the
voice of my adopted sister Pilarcita. She and the excellent Cherub were
claiming acquaintance with the Duke.
They were close to the chapel in which I stood. Half turning I saw the
group, which consisted of six persons. Dick was not among them, and I
wondered whether he were absent by design or accident.
Now the Duchess and the Cherub were talking together. Now the O’Donnel’s
were being introduced to Lady Vale-Avon and Monica. The two girls began
chatting together. Dear Pilar, what a jewel of a sister she was!
“Do you remember Cristóbal?” I heard her suddenly ask Carmona, in a voice
raised to such clear distinctness that I guessed she had seen a uniform
behind the iron-work of the half-open chapel door. “You saw my brother, I
think, when he was a little boy. He’s stationed here now; we’ve been
visiting him.”
I took this as my cue, and turning from the sleeping figure of Bishop
Alonso de Cartagena, I walked out of the chapel to join my adopted family.
“Why, here’s Cristóbal now!” exclaimed Pilar.
Then, in a flash, she had me introduced to all, leaving Monica till the
last, so that the girl might have time to get her breath after the first
shock of surprise.
Whether it was that yesterday had given her a lesson in self-control, or
whether Pilar had contrived to whisper some word concerning her brother, I
could not tell; but if Monica changed colour I could not see it, perhaps
because a darkening of the sky outside had begun to deepen the rich dusk
of the cathedral.
For her own sake I scarcely dared look at her; and my silence must have
passed with the others for the shyness of a young soldier among strangers.
But I did look at Carmona, feeling his eyes upon me, and met a stare as
searching as Röntgen rays.
His face is not one easy to read; but for once the windows of his mind
were wide open. If he had recognized me, and guessed the trick which had
been played on him he would have worn a very different expression; but he
was bewildered, uneasy, as he had been yesterday when he saw Monica lean
forward, blushing, to gaze at a masked man in a motor-car.
He realized the likeness between Cristóbal O’Donnel y Alvarez and his own
dangerous, though ineligible rival, Casa Triana. I could see the thought
dart into his mind and rankle; I could see him push it into a dark corner
kept for the rubbish of imagination. I knew how he was telling himself
that there could be no connection or collusion between the O’Donnel family
and Casa Triana. I hoped he also soothed his anxiety by reminding himself
that in all probability Casa Triana, in the blue Gloria car once seen by
his chauffeur, was busily forgetting Monica Vale in some distant part of
Europe. Carmona had admitted one mistake yesterday: he would not be ready
to fall into another to-day.
Lady Vale-Avon was also gazing somewhat sharply at the young Spanish
officer, a brother of those old acquaintances of the Duke’s. But now she
coaxed her eyesight by lifting a lorgnette which, as Mary Stuart, she had
not been able to carry on the night of our former meeting; and when a
questioning glance at Carmona met with no alarming answer, the suspicious
frown faded from her forehead.
After a few words we all, as if with one accord, began to move on upon the
tour of inspection; and still there was no sign of Dick.
I would defy anyone to hold out for more than five minutes against the
charm of the Cherub. Without raising his voice above a honeyed murmur, and
with nothing particular to say, by sheer force of cherubic, Andaluz charm
of manner he fascinated the Duchess of Carmona, and even Lady Vale-Avon,
to whom he was a new type. She had been studying Spanish with an eye to
the future, for she understood and answered Colonel O’Donnel; but with
apparent innocence and real subtlety he contrived to keep the Duke busy
explaining him, and murmured so many funny things that even Carmona was
obliged occasionally to burst out laughing.
Meanwhile, Monica, Pilar, and I were left to follow behind, greatly
against the will of the Duke, as I guessed by the sulky set of his
shoulders.
“Quick, quick, into this chapel,” whispered Pilar, “before they look
round. Then they won’t know where we’ve disappeared, and you’ll have five
minutes grace.” As she spoke, she caught Monica by the arm, and whisked
her into the Capilla del Condestable. Once behind the iron lattice, she
darted away as if moved by a sudden passion to gaze at the carved altar
piece.
“How wonderful!” said Monica. I caught her hands, which she held out to
me, and then we laughed into each other’s eyes, in sheer happiness and
triumph over fate. “To think that you’re here, after all.”
“Wherever you are, I’m going to be, while you want me,” said I, “and until
we know whether I shall have to take you away.”
“I might have known you wouldn’t fail me,” she said. “But I was so unhappy
yesterday. When I saw that handkerchief I knew at once who you were,
though I should never have guessed, with those awful goggles, and I
couldn’t help giving a jump, and getting red. But I shall never be so
stupid again. I’ll be prepared for anything. Just a whisper from Señorita
O’Donnel was enough this time. While we shook hands she said, ‘Something’s
going to happen.’ So I was ready. Only it does seem too good to be true.”
“Here’s the glove and the rose you threw me,” I said, showing them inside
my coat.
“Here’s the music you played to me,” she answered, touching her heart; and
I would have given a year of my life to kiss her. “Oh, tell me, is Miss
O’Donnel any relation to you, really?”
“Only a very good and clever friend,” said I, for there was not much time
to waste in explaining things more or less irrelevant. “All this was her
idea, to give me a chance of getting near you. And, as Cristóbal’s my name
too, as well as her brother’s, the thing has been managed without a fib.
Brother Cristóbal has leave. Friend Cristóbal will spend it with the
family; that is, they’re all going in that red car you saw
yesterday—wherever you go. It would save a lot of anxiety if you could
tell where that will be.”
“I can’t,” said Monica. “I fancy mother’s afraid I might find some way of
letting you know; anyway, the Duke is always talking about how pleasant it
is not to make plans beforehand, but to let each day arrange itself. I
don’t know how or where we’re to spend the time before we get to Seville;
but for Holy Week we’re to be at the Duke’s house. I’m not afraid of
anything, though, now you’re near; and I think I shall let myself be
happy, in spite of the Duke, for your Spain is glorious, and I love it. I
wish it weren’t the Duke’s Spain too!”
“He thinks it’s all his,” said I. “Is he bothering you much?”
“No. He’s being nice to me. You know, I refused him in Biarritz; but
mother came in while I was doing it, and told him that I was too young to
know my own mind; that he must be patient, and she could almost promise
I’d change it. I said I wouldn’t, but that made no difference. And as
mother wanted to come on this trip, I had to come too. I have an idea
they’ve made up a plan between them that I shall be left in peace till
Seville, if I behave myself. If they suspect who you really are, though,
it will be dreadful. I don’t know what will happen.”
“They can’t make you marry Carmona,” I said.
“No. How could they? such things can’t be done nowadays; at least, I
suppose they can’t; and yet, when people are strong and determined, and
unscrupulous too, one never knows what they may be planning, what they may
be capable of doing. Often, in the night, I try to think what they _could_
do, and tell myself they could do _nothing_, unless I consented, which, of
course, I never would. Oh, I shall be very happy and safe now. It will
even be amusing, or it would be if I were sure the Duke couldn’t harm
_you_.”
“He tried yesterday and failed,” said I. “If he tries again, he’ll fail
again. But for the present, he thinks it was a false alarm, and perhaps
believes I’ve stopped in Biarritz, sulking.”
“It was dangerous for you to come,” said Monica.
I laughed. “Don’t I look like the sort of fellow who can take care of
himself—and maybe the girl he loves, too?”