Part 58

“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?