The Car of Destiny
that you’re to do a certain thing, you find yourself doing it. That’s one
reason I was so glad when you came to-night, and said, ‘The next is our
dance,’ in such a determined way. Not only did you take me away from
_him_, but—I felt you’d try to _keep_ me from him, in the end.”
“Try!” I echoed. “I will keep you. Trust me my darling. I’ve been foolish
to come to Biarritz under another name. This isn’t Spain; and even a Casa
Triana has a right to be here. But luckily not much harm’s done. Through
the de la Moles I’ll be presented to Lady Vale-Avon; I’ll tell her that,
though compared to the days when my people counted for something in the
history of Spain, I’m penniless, still my father left me enough to live on
and keep a wife who loves me better than she loves society. I’ll tell Lady
Vale-Avon that there are countries in which my name’s well thought of,
even in these piping times; that there I’ll do something worth doing—”
“You’ve already done things worth doing,” the girl broke in; “splendid
things.”
“I’ve done nothing yet, but I’ll change that. I’ll ask your mother to give
me a chance—to wait—”
“No,” she insisted. “Mother would refuse, and everything would be worse
than ever.”
“Darling one, they couldn’t be worse. Because now, I’m doing what I
oughtn’t to do, although it’s been forced upon me by my love. To deserve
you in the faintest degree, I must be open in my dealings. I must speak to
Lady Vale-Avon.”
“She’ll never consent.”
“At least I shall have done the right thing. Now we’ve had this talk, now
you know that you’re all the world, and heaven besides, to me, even for
your mother’s sake you won’t throw me over, will you?”
“No, a thousand times no. I didn’t dream loving would be like this. It
would kill me to give you up.”
“Then nothing can part us.”
“It makes me feel brave to hear you say so. But—you don’t know mother.”
“I know myself, and I trust you.”
“I’m so young, and—I’ve never been allowed to have my own way. I’ve always
given up.”
“Because you were alone, with no one to help you. Now you have me.”
“That’s true. But—”
“Precious one, there’s no ’but.’”
“I wish I could think so! Yet something seems to say that if you speak to
mother, we shall be lost. I love you—but—_do_ let it be kept secret for a
while.”
“With what end?”
“I hardly know. Only, I’ve the strongest presentiment it would be best.”
“And I’ve the strongest conviction that not only would it be wrong, but
that you wouldn’t respect me if I consented.”
“I beg of you, wait at least till the royalties leave Biarritz before you
tell mother, or anyone, who you are.”
I could not help smiling, though rather bitterly. “You’ve heard about my
adventure in Barcelona?”
“Yes, from Angèle. I couldn’t bear it if you were to have trouble here.”
“There’s no danger of that.”
“One can’t tell. Circumstances which you don’t foresee might seem to
involve you in some plot. Oh, if you love me, wait till the royalties have
gone.”
How could I refuse those soft eyes, and those little clasped hands?
I caught the hands and crushed them against my lips, the rosy fingers that
smelled of orris, and the polished nails like pink jewels. As I bent over
my love, the curtain which covered the doorway waved as in a gust of wind.
Quick as light, Monica snatched away her hands, but it was too late.
Carmona was holding back the portière for Lady Vale-Avon.
He must have been watching. He must have known that I had brought Lady
Monica to this room. He must have fetched the girl’s mother on purpose to
find us together.
These were the thoughts in my mind as I faced the two, mask in hand.
They had seen me kissing Monica’s fingers. It was useless to hope that
they had not.
“Leave the room instantly, my daughter,” said Lady Vale-Avon, in a low
voice. She too had taken off her mask.
It was a disastrous situation for me, and one all too difficult to carry
off with dignity.
“Madame,” I said. “I am the Marqués de Casa Triana. I met Lady Monica some
time ago, and have this moment told her that I love her. Now, I ask your
consent to—”
“Casa Triana here!” exclaimed Carmona, in a tone which could have
expressed no more of horror, had I been a bandit at large.
“Have no fear for your house,” I could not help sneering.
He gave me a look not to be forgiven a man by a man. “I have no such
fear,” he said; “but there are those here whose safety is dear to me; and
your name is not one which should be spoken under the same roof.”
It was thus that he chose to inform Lady Vale-Avon, if she had been
ignorant of it, that I was a notorious character.
“Will you tell me,” he went on, “how you found your way into my mother’s
house, where no one of your name could be an invited guest?”
“There’s a window,” said I, thinking to save de la Mole, “by which the
world and his wife might enter.”
“I saw you, masked, in the ball-room half an hour ago.”
Half an hour ago! Perhaps he was not exaggerating. But the thirty minutes,
if there had been thirty, had passed like one.
“I was there,” I admitted, “looking for Lady Monica Vale. We danced
together, and I brought her here—”
“Who is this man, Duke?” Though she spoke to him, Lady Vale-Avon’s eyes,
cold as points of steel, pierced mine.
“A person who, whatever his intentions may be, ought not to be in Biarritz
while King Alfonso’s here.”
“I remember the name now. And he has come to your house, uninvited; he
proposes to marry my daughter—a man whom I’ve never seen! You have your
answer, Marqués de Casa Triana, if you need an answer. It is, no. Pray
accept it quietly, and cease to persecute us, otherwise I must ask the
Duke to act for me, as I have no husband or son. Is that enough?”
“It is not enough,” I echoed. “I love your daughter, and I trust she cares
for me. I will not give her up.”
“Monica, I told you to go, and you disobey me,” exclaimed Lady Vale-Avon.
“Now, I tell you to send this man away.”
“Mother—I love him,” faltered the girl. “Wait—when you’ve heard—when you
know what he is—”
“You talk like a child, Monica,” her mother said. “You are a child. It’s
your one excuse; but this man, who must have hypnotized you, has reached
years of discretion. If he will not leave the room, we must.”
“I’ll go, Lady Vale-Avon,” I said, “but first let me say once more,
frankly, I will never give up your daughter.” Then I looked straight at
Monica. “Trust me,” I said, “as I trust you; and have courage.”
With that I bowed, and walked out at the window by which I hoped the Duke
thought I had come in.
“I’m not sure,” I heard him say to Lady Vale-Avon, “that I oughtn’t to
inform the police. In Barcelona, six or seven years ago—”
I waited for no more.
IV
“I DON’T THREATEN—I WARN”
In the garden I stopped, hiding away a scrap of a lace handkerchief I had
stolen; wondering if I had been altogether wrong, yet not able to see what
other course had been open.
Lingering near the window I saw Lady Vale-Avon go to Monica, and hold the
girl by the hand while she talked with Carmona. They spoke only a few
words. Then the Duke opened the door, and the two ladies went out, Monica
not once looking up.
No sooner had they gone than Carmona walked to the window, and seeing me
in the glimmering night joined me.
“This is my mother’s house,” he said in Spanish.
“And her garden, you would add,” I answered.
“Yes.”
“But there’s something here that is mine.”
“There is nothing here that is yours.” His voice, studiously cold at
first, warmed with anger.
“It will be mine some day, in spite of—_everything_.”
“You boast, Marqués de Casa Triana.”
“No. For Lady Monica Vale has promised to marry me.”
Carmona caught his breath on a word by which, if he had not stopped to
think, he would have given me the lie. But something restrained him and he
laughed instead. “I wouldn’t count on the fulfilment of her promise if I
were you,” he said. “Lady Monica’s a schoolgirl. I would tell you, for
your own sake, that the best thing you can do is to forget you ever saw
her; but that will be a waste of breath. What I will say is, you’ll be
wise to leave Biarritz before anything disagreeable happens.”
“I intend to leave Biarritz,” I said quietly.
“I’m glad to hear it.”
“When Lady Monica and her mother leave.”
“You intend to persecute these ladies!”
“Not at all. But when they go to visit the Duchess of Carmona, that will
be—the time I shall choose for leaving Biarritz.”
“Who has spoken of such a visit?”
“A person I trust.”
He was silent for a moment, whether in surprise or anger I could not tell.
But at last he said, “I’m less well-informed than your friend as to the
plans of Lady Vale-Avon and her daughter. They may return to England; they
may go to friends in Paris, they may visit my mother. But this doesn’t
concern strangers like yourself; and my advice to the Marqués de Casa
Triana is, _whatever happens, keep out of Spain_.”
“Do you threaten me?” I asked.
“I don’t threaten—I warn.”
“Thanks for your kind intentions. They give me food for thought.”
“All the better. You’ll be less likely to forget.”
“I shan’t forget,” I answered. “Indeed, I shall profit by your advice.”
And with that I walked away, putting on my mask.
As Romeo had not known at what hour he might wish to leave the house of
Capulet, he had ordered neither his own motor-car nor a carriage; but
luckily a cab was lingering in the neighbourhood on the chance of a fare.
I was glad not to walk to my hotel in the guise of Romeo; and I gained my
quarters without meeting curious eyes in the corridors.
As I expected, Dick was in our private sitting-room, smoking and reading a
novel.
“Well, what luck, friend Romeo?” he asked.
“Luck, and ill luck,” said I. Then I told the story of the evening.
“Humph! you’ve gone and got yourself into a pretty scrape,” was his
comment at the end.
“You call it a ‘scrape’ when by a miracle the sweetest girl alive has
fallen in love with you?”
“Just that, if the girl isn’t old enough to know her own mind, and has a
mother who wouldn’t let her know it if she could. You’ve gone so far now,
you’ll have to go further—”
“As far as the end of the world, if necessary.”
“Oh! you _Latin_ men, with your eyes of fire, your boiling passions, and
your exaggerated expressions! What do we Yankees and other sensible
persons see in you?”
“Heaven knows,” said I, shrugging my shoulders.
“I doubt it. Why, in the name of common sense, as you’d got to the age of
twenty-seven without bothering about love, couldn’t you wait till the age
of twenty-seven and a quarter, go quietly over to my country with me, a
long sight better than the ‘end of the world,’ and propose to a charming
American girl of rational age and plenty of dollars?”
“A rational age?”
“Over eighteen, anyhow. I believe you Latins have a fancy for these little
white _ingénues_, who don’t know which side their bread’s buttered, or how
to say anything but ‘Yes, please,’ and ‘No, thank you.’ When my time
comes, the girl must be twenty-two and a good, patriotic American.”
“American girls are fascinating, but I happen to be in love with an
English one, and it’s her misfortune and mine, not our fault, that she’s
eighteen instead of twenty-two.”
“A big misfortune. You mustn’t kidnap an infant. That’s what makes it
awkward. As I said, you can’t back out now.”
“Not while I live.”
“Don’t be so Spanish. But come to think of it, I suppose you can’t help
that. What do you mean to do next?”
“Watch. And get word to Monica.”
“Angèle de la Mole will do what she can for you.”
“I hope so. Then everything else must depend on the girl.”
Dick’s lean, tanned face was half quizzical, half sad.