My errand in Spain was finished, or rather broken short. She did not want me any more. The sooner I took myself out of her life and let her forget what must now seem childish folly, the better. I might have known—she was so young; and she had warned me of disaster when she said, “Don’t leave me alone.”
I went to Olivero’s flat and changed my clothes; then to the hotel where Ropes and the car were waiting. For the first time since we had come into Spain, I drove, “like a demon,” Ropes’ surprised face said, though his tongue was discreet; and the wild rush through the air was wine to thirsty lips.
At the Cortijo de Santa Rufina they were all sitting in the _patio_ in floods of moonlight, the great awning which gave shade by day, fully rolled back.
“You see,” exclaimed Pilar, “we sat up for you. Well, how did it go off?”
I heard myself laughing. It did not feel a pleasant laugh, but I was glad 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.