The Car of Destiny
to think that it sounded like any other. “Oh, it went off exactly as I
might have expected,” I said, knowing that it was useless to hide my
humiliation, though I might hide my misery. “And consequently, my car and
I will also go off, to-morrow. As for Dick, he must do as he pleases; but
I advise him, now he’s here, to stay for the _Semana Santa_.”
“What do you mean?” asked Pilar, almost letting fall the guitar on which
she had been playing. “Has—has Lady Monica promised to go with
you—to-morrow?”
“Not at all,” said I. “But what she’s promised to another man makes it
better that I should go. She’s engaged to Carmona.”
“I don’t believe it,” cried Pilar.
“I shouldn’t, if anyone but herself had told me.”
“She said it?”
“In exactly those words. She said too, that she didn’t want to see me
again.”
“Oh—oh!” breathed Pilar. “Thank _Heaven_ for that. You frightened me
horribly—just for a moment.”
I stared. “And now—”
“Now I know there’s some mistake—dreadful, but not too dreadful to clear
up.”
I laughed again, as bitterly as I felt this time. “Extraordinary idea!
Because she says she doesn’t want to see me, there’s a mistake—”
“Of course. Surely you aren’t so cold-hearted, so disloyal, so—so _stupid_
as to believe her? But tell me instantly all about it—everything; every
word; every look.”
“Easily done,” I said, “if it won’t bore you all. There were very few of
either; but what there were left nothing to the imagination.”
“Imagination indeed!” exclaimed Pilar. “But go on.”
So I went on, and she listened to the end without interruption, as did the
two others, who were only men, and therefore had no comments to make upon
such matters.
As I told the wretched story in as few and as bald words as possible,
Pilar sat grave-eyed, tense-lipped as Portia in the Court of Justice
before her turn to plead. When I finished she was silent for a moment, I
thought because, after all, she found herself with nothing to say. But,
when her father in his compassion would have begun some murmur of
consolation, she broke out quickly, “I suppose she _is_ engaged to the
Duke, or she wouldn’t have said so.”
“Not much doubt of that,” I assented.
“Nor _any_ doubt of her real feelings. Poor little girl, I know she’s
wishing she could die to-night. Those _devils!_ Yes, I _will_ say it,
Papa. I shall be forgiven, for they _are_. They’ve told her some hateful
lie, and made her so desperate she was ready to do anything. Why, it’s
just come to me; there’s only one thing that would make a girl who loves a
man do what she’s done.”
“What?” I broke in, breathless; for Pilar’s fire had flamed into my blood
now, and I waited for her answer as a man waits for an antidote to poison.
“Believing he’s in love with someone else.”
“How could she believe that? Who is there—” I stopped. My eyes met
Pilar’s, and she blushed, stammering as she hurried bravely on. “The
greatest nonsense, of course. But—but—_oh_, don’t you remember how she
looked that evening at Manzanares when we saw her last? So wistful, as if
there were something on her mind she mustn’t tell? I caught her looking at
me once or twice as if she were wondering—they must have begun, even then,
to upset her mind, poor, lonely child; but the worst hadn’t happened; she
was only a little doubtful. If you could have spoken to her, or if I—”
“I did write,” I said, “though I’ve always been afraid something went
wrong with that letter.”
“Ah!” Pilar caught at this, and would have the whole story with every
detail. I even found myself confessing my old presentiment, the fancy that
Monica was calling for me to help her.
“I believe she was, calling and praying. Of course she never got the
letter. What was in it? If you don’t mind my asking?”
“I said, a crisis seemed to be coming, and she must make up her mind to
let me take her away.”
“A splendid letter to fall into her mother’s hands. Did you sign your real
name?”
“No name at all. I wrote in a hurry, and—”
“That’s lucky. But even if you had, Lady Vale-Avon couldn’t have shown
such a letter to the Duke, he’s too Spanish—too Moorish, I ought to say.
She wouldn’t have dared, as she wants him for a son-in-law.”
“That occurred to me.”
“But there aren’t many other things she wouldn’t dare, to get rid of such
a danger as you. If she got the letter—and I’m sure she did—there was your
handwriting at her mercy. Supposing she—”
“I know what’s in your mind. But I don’t think such things are done—out of
novels.”
“Oh, aren’t they; when people are clever enough? I know of one case
myself. And the girl’s life was spoiled. Lady Monica’s shan’t be though,
if I can help it.”
“You’re taking a great deal for granted,” I said. But I felt as if the
radiance of heaven were pouring down upon me, instead of the pensive
moonlight.
“Doesn’t your heart tell you I’m right?” cried Pilar.
“Yes!” I answered. “Yes, you good angel, it does.”
XXIX
THE GARDEN OF FLAMING LILIES
The voice of some maid servant singing a _copla_ waked me early in the
morning, after an hour or two of sleep.
_El amor y la naranja_
_se parecen infinito;_
_Que por muy dulces que sean_
_de agrio tienen su poquito._(1)
Yes, always a little bitter, I said to myself. But if for me there were
after all to be some sweetness left?
Last night before parting, the Cherub, Dick and I had talked matters over
from every point of view. I was only too thankful to take the advice of
one girl on behalf of another, and give to Monica the benefit of that
doubt which at first had not seemed admissible. But even Pilar confessed
that Monica’s engagement to Carmona made our part a hundred times more
difficult.
Whatever her motive had been—revenge upon me for supposed disloyalty,
dread of her mother, or awakened ambition--she had in any case consented
to marry him, and Pilar suggested that the dinner invitations had been
sent out as an excuse for a public announcement, which would more firmly
bind her to her promise. The news would have flown all over Seville in
twenty-four hours; when the King arrived on Tuesday Carmona would
certainly lose no time in telling him; Lady Vale-Avon would not wait for
Monica to write to the Princess, but would probably wire; and no matter
what my private anxieties might be, for Monica’s sake I must do nothing
openly. As for defying Carmona to use his knowledge of my true name, and
challenging him to fight, that must not be thought of. Monica’s fair fame
would never survive such a scandal, especially in Spain, where a girl’s
reputation is as easily damaged as the down on a butterfly’s wing.
But, as the Cherub said, there are many roads which lead to the centre of
the world. He had learned at his club that the Duke had lent his box in
the tribune to a friend, for such processions as he and his household did
not care to see. That friend was a member of the club, and through him the
Cherub had found out that the box in question was next to the royal box
which would be occupied by the King, the Infanta Doña María Teresa, and
her husband. Immediately upon making this discovery, the Cherub had begun
to move heaven and earth to obtain a box for himself, either behind, in
front of, or on one side of Carmona’s box. He did not know yet if he
should succeed, for things were not done in a moment in Spain. Of course
all the boxes were already subscribed for the whole week by members of the
aristocracy and other persons of importance in Seville; but, then, the
Cherub had friends and acquaintances in every class. If it were a question
of money, money would not be spared; if it were a question of a favour for
a favour in return, that favour would be given. There was hope that the
thing might be arranged; and once Pilar came within speaking distance of
Monica, nothing short of sudden death could prevent her from telling the
girl the truth, vowing by all the saints that she had been deceived for
the one purpose of separating her from me. If Monica could be made to
believe that, she would have courage to be true in spite of all; and then
it would be for me to save her from keeping the engagement into which she
had been tricked.
As for my going to Carmona’s house and trying to see Monica, such a plan
appeared useless, as I should certainly not be allowed to come near her.
Therefore I must wait with such patience as I could, and let my friends
help me in the subtle ways favoured in Spain.
Now, Palm Sunday had dawned crystal clear; but Pilar had explained that
nobody occupied the boxes and chairs to see the procession of palms in the
morning; that, though it was pretty to see, it was not one of the great
sights; and, as one must be waiting early outside the cathedral, it was
unlikely that anyone from Carmona’s house would be there. Still there was
the chance, and I could not afford to miss it; so the O’Donnels offered to
go with me into Seville, Dick, of course, being of the party.
Consequently, every one at the Cortijo was astir by six; and before seven
Dick and I were in the _patio_, just in time to greet Pilar utterly
fascinating in a mantilla.
She was dressed as a Spanish woman of the upper class should be dressed on
Palm Sunday; and though the tight-fitting, rich black brocade silk which
she wore would, in any other country, have seemed a costume not for young
girlhood but for middle age, it suited her wonderfully. Her clear-skinned,
heart-shaped face, with its great soft eyes and red lips, was beautiful in
the cloudy frame of black lace; and her piled hair, of so dark a brown as
to appear black, except when the sunlight burnished threads of gold in its
masses, looked ruddy as the leaves of a copper-beech gleaming through the
figured lace.
“By Jove!” exclaimed Dick, jumping to his feet when he saw her. No more
than that; but Pilar was woman enough to understand the value of the
compliment; and she smiled, patting the flounce of her mantilla into still
more graceful folds on her breast.
“You think me nice like this?” she asked. “I’m proud of my mantilla, you
know. It came to me from my great-grandmother, as all the best ones do
come to Spanish girls; and I’ve two lovely white mantillas which I wear on
great feast days when I want to be very beautiful.”
“At bull-fights?” asked Dick, his eyes adoring her in a way he would have
laughed at in any other man only a few weeks ago.
“I don’t go to bull-fights,” said Pilar. “I love the poor bulls and horses
so much, it would make me sad to see them die. Though, if I were a bull, I
would myself choose a brave death in the arena, after a life of five
glorious years, rather than the slaughter-house, or a weary existence of
labour till old age or overstrain finished me. But I drive in the _paseo_
on the bull-fight days, and for the _feria_. _Ay de mi!_ A girl in Spain
has few other chances to make herself pretty for the world to see, unless
she lives in Madrid; and if it were not for the bull-fights, I suppose
many girls would never get husbands. But, Our Lady be thanked, I do not
have to look for one.”
Did she mean that there was any understanding with Don Cipriano?
I knew this was the thought which flashed through Dick’s mind. And if
Pilar had been desirable in motoring days, she was irresistible at home.
Before eight o’clock the Gloria was at the gates, and twenty minutes later
we were on foot in the street of the Gran Capitán, mingling with the crowd
who waited for the first procession of _Semana Santa_ to pour out from the
cathedral doors. But the crowd was not a dense one, and the face I hoped
to see was not there. “It will be a long time before anything happens,”
said the Cherub. “Here, when a thing should be at eight, it is at nine, or