The Car of Destiny
“Yes, yes,” she answered. “How I love you, and how proud I am of you. If
you should stop caring—if you should find it wasn’t worth while—”
“We’ve too few moments together to discuss impossibilities.”
“Ah, but you have known me such a short time. Suppose you should see
someone else—” and she glanced at Pilar’s pretty, heart-shaped face, and
the velvet eyes raised in contemplation of a carved Madonna.
“There’s nobody else but you in the world,” I had begun, when Pilar
beckoned. “They’re coming,” she said. “You must be looking at this sweet
little panel, Lady Monica. Cristóbal, go instantly and stare as hard as
you can at San Gerónimo on the other side. See, that pet who is twisting
his dear feet.”
It was thus they found us; the two girls chatting over the perfection of
the tombs of the constable and his wife; the soldier blind to the charms
of his sister’s companion, and wrapped in reverent contemplation of a
wooden masterpiece.
“We were so stupid to lose you,” said Pilar. “But we thought you’d be sure
to come back this way by and by.”
XIV
SOME LITTLE IDEAS OF DICK’S
We said good-bye presently, still in the cathedral, all very polite and
conventionally interested in each other’s affairs. Pilar ingenuously hoped
that we might meet again in Madrid. The Duke said he hoped so too, but did
not know, as they were motoring, and stopped each day where fancy
prompted. Pilar thought this charming, and said that we were going to have
a little trip with an automobile, too. An American friend had invited us.
At that very moment the American friend was visible in the dim distance,
standing with his back to us, gazing at an alabaster tomb. One would have
thought he had some reason for avoiding us, or else escaping an
introduction to the others, for he let them leave the cathedral before he
tore himself away from his study of the sleeping cardinal. When they had
vanished, however, he came towards us with a briskness which showed that
he had taken more interest in our movements than he appeared to do.
“It’s gone off beautifully!” Pilar informed him. “And you did exactly
right, Señor Waring. You see,” she said to me, “on second thoughts one saw
he’d better keep out of the way, for fear the Duke might begin to put two
and two together, just as he was noticing that Cristóbal looked rather
like someone else. He caught a glimpse of Señor Waring’s face yesterday,
in the car, and it will be safer for him not to see _us_ in that car until
we have gone on a little further. Then, he will have had time to get used
to my brother’s face, as my brother’s. Wasn’t that a clever idea of mine?”
We all praised her; and praised her again when she explained her policy in
having dropped a hint about our American motoring friend, so that she need
not be suspected of having tried to conceal anything when the car appeared
on the scene.
“The Duke’s auto was at the door when I came in,” said Dick. “He must have
seen ours.”
“Yes. But he saw you, too, prowling round the cathedral by yourself. I
suppose you have as much right to be motoring in Spain as he has, seeing
the sights?”
This was true. And as the grey car had now probably gone off, it was time
that ours persued.
Ropes was in his seat, coated and legginged once more in leather, and so
well goggled that there was no reason why he should be associated in any
mind with that Mr. George Smith who had threatened to air his wrongs in
_The Times_. He had seen the other car go, so we must follow. We crossed
the Arlanzon and I looked back regretfully at the citadel of Burgos,
rising in the middle of the town. We had had no time to visit that castle
in which so much history has been made. There the Cid was married; there
he held prisoner Alfonso of Leon; there was Edward the First of England
married to Eleanor of Castile; and there Pedro the Cruel first saw the
light. But if there was one regret more pressing than another, it was that
I could not go to the Town Hall and pay my respects to those bones of the
Cid, and Ximena his wife, so strangely restored to Burgos, after their
extraordinary wanderings to far Sigmaringen.
“Who is this _Thith_ you all keep talking about?” demanded Dick, as the
car spun along the river bank.
“Heavens, don’t tell me that you’ve been brought up in ignorance of our
national hero!” I exclaimed. “If I’d dreamed of such a thing, I couldn’t
have made a friend of you. Why, this was his town. He was married in the
citadel. He—”
“How do you spell him?” asked Dick, cautiously.
“C-i-d, of course.”
“Great Scott! you don’t mean to say my old friend the Cid was the _Thith_
all the time, and I never knew it? What a blow! I don’t see why C-i-d
shouldn’t spell Cid, even in Spanish; as a Thith I can’t respect him.”
“Then let him go to the grave with you as the Cid,” said I. “But you know,
or ought to know, that ‘C,’ and ‘Z,’ and sometimes ‘D’ are ‘th’ with us.”
“I never bothered much with trying to pronounce foreign languages,” said
Dick. “I just wrestle with the words the best I can in plain American. But
now—I always thought it rude to mention it before—I understand why you
Spaniards seem to lisp, and hiss out your last syllables like secrets. As
for the place we’re going to next—”
“Valladolid?” I pronounced it as a Spaniard does, “Valyadoleeth.”
“Yes. That beats the Thith. My tongue isn’t built for it, and I shall call
it simply Val.”
With murmured regrets from the Cherub that we strangers were turning our
backs on Burgos without seeing all its treasures, and sighs from Pilar for
the Cartuja de Miraflores, and the most beautiful carved tomb on earth, we
turned our faces towards Valladolid.
Our road cut through the arid plain that had stretched before us
yesterday. Few trees punctuated the sad song of its monotony; but always
in the distance rose yellow hills like lions crouched asleep, lights and
shadows sailing above their heads with the bold swoop of the Titanic
birds. More than once we crossed the poor, single line of railway, the
main thoroughfare between Paris and Madrid, and Dick said that Spain
needed a few Americans to wake her up. Three trains a day indeed, and a
speed of fifteen miles an hour! People shook their heads and told you that
Spain was no country to motor in. Well, it was certainly no country to
travel in by rail, unless you wanted to forget where you were going before
you got there. He wished he were a managing director; or no, on second
thoughts, the thing he’d prefer would be to improve the future of the
motor industry. Why, there was a fortune to be picked up by some chap with
a little go, and a little capital. Look at these roads, now; not so bad,
any of them, as far as we had seen; some, as good as in France; others,
only rough because science hadn’t been employed in making them; after rain
they got soft and muddy, and then hardened into ridges. But a few
thousands of dollars, well laid out, would change that. Then, with a good
service of automobiles, see what could be done in the way of conveying
market produce and a hundred other things. What was the matter with
Spaniards that they didn’t fix up some scheme of this sort?
The Cherub, listening politely to Dick’s remarkable Spanish, and
understanding perhaps half, answered mildly that it would be a great deal
of trouble, and Spaniards didn’t like trouble.
“But I suppose Spaniards like getting rich, don’t they?” said Dick, who
was resting, and letting Ropes drive, while he made a fourth in the
tonneau.
“They are not anxious. It is better to be comfortable,” murmured the
Irish-Spaniard. “Besides, it is vulgar to be too rich, and makes one’s
neighbours unhappy. It is a thing I would not do myself.”
“That is true,” said Pilar. “It isn’t what you call sour grapes. Papa
could be rich if he liked. We have copper on our land, much copper. Men
came and told papa that if he chose to work it he might have one of the
best copper mines in Spain.”
“And he wouldn’t?” asked Dick.
“Not for the world,” said Colonel O’Donnel, with a flash of pride in his
mild, brown eyes. “I do not come of that sort of people. I am an officer.
I am not a miner.”
“But,” pleaded Dick, bewildered by this new type of man, who refused to
open his door and let money, tons of money, roll in, “but you could sell
the land and make an enormous profit. You could keep shares, and—”
“I have no wish to sell,” replied the Cherub.
“Well, you might let others work the mine for you.”
“But I prefer living over it. It’s beautiful land. I would not have it
made ugly. My ancestors would rise from their graves and cry out against
me.”
“Still, we are poor,” said Pilar. “New brother, pray be careful of
Cristóbal’s clothes,” and she laughed merrily. “It will be a long time
before we can afford to buy others.”
“And all that copper eating its head off underground,” gasped Dick.
“We have cousins who are prouder than we about such things,” said Pilar.
“Two girls and their mother, who live in Seville. They’ve a beautiful old
house with lovely grounds, but nothing else. How they manage not to
starve, the saints know. They’ve sold their china and jewels—everything
but their mantillas—to keep their carriage; and they have to share that
with two other families of cousins, each taking it in turn; but they have
three doors to the carriage—a door with the family crest of one, a door
with the crest of the second, and another with the third; so nobody
outside knows. A Scotch company want to buy their house and land for an
hotel, and have offered enough money to make them rich for life; but
they’d rather die than give up the place. And although one of my cousins
can paint beautifully, and could make a great deal by selling pretty
sketches of Seville, her mother won’t allow it. I do think it’s carrying
pride too far; but there are lots of people I know who are like that.”
“It makes me feel as if I’d came through a week’s illness just to hear it
all,” said Dick. “I can’t get over that copper.”
Through village after village we sped smoothly, everyone delighted to see
us except the dogs, who resented our coming, and made driving a
difficulty, until Ropes picked up a trick which usually served to keep
dogs and car out of danger from one another. He would throw up his arms
suddenly and the dog, thinking of a whip or a stone, would mechanically
spring out of harm’s way. By that time we would have whizzed past.
After a short run we reached Torquemada, home of the Grand Inquisitor;
crossed the Pisuerga by a long-legged bridge straddling across the
river-bed; had a fleeting glimpse of Venta de Baños; came to a
straight-cut canal of beryl-green water (which Dick gloomily pronounced a
surprising evidence of energy in Spain), and slowed down to wonder at a
village of cave dwellings, hollowed out in tiers in the hillside, above
the road on our right.
It was such a place as Crockett describes excitingly in one of his books
of adventure. All the long, yellow flank of the hill was honeycombed with
little, dark doorways and leering windows, whence wild faces looked. From
hummocky chimneys rose the smoke of hidden fires burning in the heart of
the earth; while down in the road a donkey or two, with their heads in
yellow bags and their forefeet tied together with rope, tried to hop away
up the steep hill, as if they were gigantic rabbits.
By the waterside stood pollarded trees, scraggy and black, ranged along
the shore like naked negro boys, big-headed, with shaggy lumps of wool,
hesitating before a plunge. The sandy roads were welcome after stones, and
suddenly the landscape began to copy Africa, with shifting yellow sand
deserts, brushed by purple shadows of the Sahara. Far away, the mountains,