Chapter 18

Astounded, I stepped back; and so vast was the chasm of my amazement that I floundered in it bewildered, unable even to suffer.

Then came a pang of such pain and anger as I had never known—anger not against the girl, but against Carmona; and the knife which pierced me was dipped in the poison of jealously. My impulse was to leap out from the shadow and strangle him. My hands tingled for his neck, and through the drumming of the blood in my ears I could hear the crack his spine would make as I twisted it. For that instant I was a madman. Then, something that was myself conquered.

Horror of the savage thing just born in me overflowed in an icy flood that swept it, drowning, out of my soul. But never again, so long as I may live, shall I condemn a man who kills another in one blind moment of rage.

Even when the red glaze was gone from before my eyes, I could not trust myself to stand there, looking at Carmona as he smiled and patronized the dancers by clapping his hands. I turned away, not stopping until I had regained the kiosk.

There I sat down, elbows on knees, head in my hands, trying to analyse that look on Monica’s face, trying to tell myself that I must have mis-read it—that such an expression as I imagined could not have been there for me.

Perhaps, as I suddenly appeared behind a veil of flickering moonlight and shadow she had not known who I was. She had mistaken me for some impertinent stranger, and rather than give an alarm, she had hoped that a frown might rid her of the intruder. Then, I had gone without giving her a second chance to recognize me.

After a few minutes of such reflections, I almost persuaded myself that I had been a fool and was wholly to blame for what I suffered. At least, I said, I owed it to her to make sure that the look had been for me, and the suspense must end to-night. I would know, even if I made her answer me under the eyes of Carmona and the others.

But a moment later I saw that I need not be driven to such extremes.

The first part of the dance was over; the Duke and his guests were walking through the gardens in the interval. They were coming my way—coming to the kiosk. As they advanced, I retreated into shadow. I let the group linger at the kiosk, admiring the beautiful _azulejos_; I let them move on; then, as Monica loitered purposely behind the others, drooping and evidently sad, I put myself in front of her.

“Monica,” I said, “what has happened? You—”

The girl flung up her head, and though there was a glitter of tears in her eyes and her face was white under the moon, she stared defiance. “Don’t speak to me,” she said. “I never wish to see you again. I’m going to marry the Duke of Carmona.”

XXVIII

LET YOUR HEART SPEAK

Men do not kill themselves for such things. Fools, or cowards, or children may; but not men who are worthy the name. Yet there was no joy of life left in me, as I went out of the Alcázar garden, having had my answer.

Love cannot die in an hour, and I loved Monica still, though I said that she was not the girl to whom I had dedicated my soul in worship.

She had let me follow her, only to say at last: “I never wish to see you again. I’m going to marry the Duke of Carmona.”

After all, she had proved herself a docile daughter. She had seen what the house of a grandee of Spain can be like. She had seen the Blanca Laguna pearl. Poor child of eighteen years, brought up to know poverty and to loathe it; was I to let my love turn to hate because she was not an angel, but a woman like others?

A despairing pity and a sense of hopeless loss weighed upon my spirit with such heaviness as I had never known. Not only had I lost the girl I loved, but there was no such girl; she was a dream, and I had waked up. That was all; but it seemed the end of everything.

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.

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 maybe half-past. What does a little time matter? But mass is being said. Who knows that the old Duchess may not have had a religious fit, and come to hear it, bringing her friends?”

No more was needed to make me anxious to go in; and we entered the cathedral, which is, to my mind, the most beautiful, inspiring, and poetic in the world.

The two O’Donnels flitted away in the dusk, mysterious as the twilight of the gods, and we guessed that they were going to hear mass. Soon they found us again. They had not seen those for whom we searched; but the procession was starting.

We made haste out before it, and none too soon, for it billowed forth after us in a glitter of gold and purple vestments, and tall, bleached palm-branches like beams of moonlight streaming against the blue of the morning sky.

“They’re not here,” said Pilar, when the last gleaming crucifix and waving palm, blessed by the bishop, had disappeared. “I was sure they wouldn’t come. And—it does seem hard to disappoint you—but I’m afraid they won’t be in their box this afternoon. Oh, we shall go, of course! But that will be the time for the Duke to lend the Conde de Ambulato his box. Thursday will be the great day, when the King will be in the royal box, and will walk with his _cofradia_ of the cigarette-makers before Our Lady of Victory. You know how anxious the Duke is to win back the favour of the royal family; and he’ll hardly think it worth while to sit through the hours of a procession unless he can be next door to the King, with a chance of an invitation to his box.”

This was discouraging; still, I determined to be in the crowd during the afternoon; and I knew well that, though the splendid show of _Semana Santa_ was an old story to the O’Donnels, they would not fail me for a moment.

Dick shamefacedly bought from one of many vendors an armful of blessed palms for Pilar to tie under the house windows, as a protection against the rage of thunder-storms throughout the coming year; and we drove to the country with the great glistening fronds blowing behind the motor-car like giant plumes.

I spent hours writing, tearing up, and rewriting a letter to Monica which Pilar was to try and deliver if she could, and when she could. We lunched and did our best to make careless conversation, as if we were not anxious and excited—Dick and I for our own selfish reasons; the two others in sympathy. We talked of Seville, past and present—once “Sultana of the South,” still beautiful and gay, though her reign is over. “We are very happy even now, among ourselves, we Sevillanos,” said the Cherub. “You should see a _tertulia_, if you want to know how families can enjoy themselves together. But there’s another side of the picture, too. English and American people—there are a few—accuse us of being unsociable. They say we never give invitations to luncheons and dinners as people of other countries do; that a few calls are exchanged, and that is all, in an intercourse, it may be, of many years.”

“Oh, I know what they say!” laughed Pilar. “I heard an American girl give a friend of hers a description of families she knew in Seville. ‘You go to call,’ said she; ‘and if the ladies are at home (they won’t be if they can help it), you’re shown into a shut-up drawing-room smelling of mustiness. In front of the fireplace, if there is any, or else the brazier-table, a hard yellow or red satin sofa is drawn up, an armchair on each side. All the rest of the furniture’s ranged in a straight row round the wall. It’s in the afternoon, but you wait till the ladies dress, because if they’re in they’re sure to be in wrappers, unless it’s so late that their carriage is ready for the _paseo_. After you’re nearly gone to sleep, they come, and you talk of any uninteresting things they can think of; never interesting ones, because they’re kept for intimate friends’ gossip; and the girls simper and stare as if you were a curiosity, because you’re allowed to walk in the street without a maid.’ That’s being ‘sociable’ in Seville, according to the American girl; and I’m afraid that she’s right from a foreigner’s point of view.”

All this, to amuse us; but unfortunately it was far from amusing to Dick. He sat looking introspective, and wondering no doubt, if Pilar meant to hint that, so far as the door of her heart was concerned, foreigners might save themselves the trouble of knocking.

Seeing him taciturn, as hostess she felt it her duty to console him, so when luncheon was over an invitation to go and visit Vivillo, the beloved bull, was delivered to all, with an especially beguiling look at Dick. He accepted with suspicious alacrity, and to please her I said yes; while the Cherub, who was evidently longing for a siesta, shrugged his shoulders dutifully. It seemed that we could see the pasture which was Vivillo’s drawing-room without trespassing upon Carmona’s land, on which I should have been loth to set my foot, even for Pilar; but when, after twenty minutes’ walk across meadows, we arrived at the hedge which divided the Duke’s _ganaderia_ from Colonel O’Donnel’s farm, Dick would not be satisfied with a distant inspection of the grazing bulls. Pilar (denuded of her mantilla, but still in the black brocade, ready for the afternoon in Seville) was going to pay a friendly call upon her darling, and Dick was resolved upon an introduction.

Pilar cried gaily to a herdsman visible in the distance, and joyously obedient to the girl’s evidently familiar voice, the young fellow came running towards us, _garrocha_ in hand. Between him and the hedge which separated the two properties, was a deep ditch which no bull, save in a state of fury, would care to jump. But not far away a long plank lay half hidden in rich grass, and the _ganadero_ dragged it nearer, without a question, as if he knew already what was expected of him. Having pushed it across the ditch, to form a bridge at the spot where the hedge was thinnest, he took off his hat, and welcomed the gracious señor and señorita home. Vivillo, said he, was well, but would be the better for a sight of the señorita, who was the one human being he had seemed to love since the day of the _tienta_ which had proved him brave.

Yes, there he was—the “lively one,” well named indeed!—grazing for the moment off there to the south-east. Could not the señorita see his brown back among the grey and black ones, farthest away? But she had only to call. Vivillo knew her voice and would answer to it as to no other. It was really a marvel. And was it true that she had begun negotiating for his purchase? Ah, it was a pity that such a _toro bravo_ would not have his chance to fight in some splendid _corrida_, where the noblest bulls of Spain must meet the most skilled of the _espadas_. He—Mateo—had often thought what a grand spectacle it would be to see Fuentes and Vivillo together. But—well, better waste the best bull that ever grazed on these pastures, and please the señorita. For her interests it was a good thing that the Señor Duque seldom or never troubled to come and see _los toros_, for if his eye once lit upon Vivillo he would never part with him for any money, except for the honour of the _corrida_.

“Then be sure you don’t let the Duke have a hint!” laughed Pilar, happy and fearless as a boy, as she squeezed through the hedge and tripped across the plank, followed by Dick.