Part 74

XXXVI

WILES AND ENCHANTMENTS

In spite of dykes and dams, said Dick, we had arrived at a place to visit which had once seemed to him as wonderful as finding the key of the rainbow. Yet here we were; and Granada—after we had entered at last by crossing still another river—came out from under its spell of enchantment when we saw it at close quarters. Only that wonderful hill above was magical still, as magical to the eye as when Ibraham the astrologer decreed its gardens.

More than half the miradored Moorish houses had given place to modern French ones; and descendants of the banished owners in far Tetuan and Tunis, might as well fling their keys and title-deeds away.

The dome of Isabella’s cathedral and the towers of old, old churches rose from among the roofs of commonplace streets; ordinary shops of yesterday and to-day ran up the steep hill towards the Alhambra; but at a great gateway—la Puerta de las Granadas, raised by Charles the Fifth—the centuries opened and let us drive through into the past.

At this hour of the morning, the deep green forest of the Alhambra park, beyond the classic arch, was still as the enchanted wood which hid from the world the Sleeping Beauty in her palace. The nightingales had gone to sleep, and the daylight birds had finished their first concert, but another voice was singing, the joyous high soprano of water—water unseen, rippling through subterranean channels; water seen tumbling in crystal runnels on either side of the road in its bubbling way downhill.

Still we saw nothing of the enchanted vermilion towers which draw all the world across sea and land. There was but a glimpse of ruddy battlements once at a turn of the road, through a netting of trees and branches; then we were in a green cutting in the deep wood, where two pleasant, old-fashioned hotels faced each other.

We were expected at the house named after that delicate and genial soul who awoke Europe and America to the charm of the Alhambra. I had hopefully telegraphed from Ronda that we would arrive early, en automobile; nevertheless, the landlord, knowing the route, was smilingly surprised to see us.

There was a telegram; that was the first thing we learned; and it was from Colonel O’Donnel; but he had no news to tell. He merely wired his advice that, if possible, Señor Waring should come back to Seville immediately, as his evidence was now wanted in the affair of the bomb.

Dick at once said that he would not desert me, but I urged upon him the advisability of going. He had seen me through my great adventure; and if Carmona and the others were in Granada there was nothing he could do at the moment which I could not do for myself. If he failed to appear in Seville, there might be trouble; and should I find that I needed his help, I would telegraph.

Pilar’s name was not spoken, but it rang in our thoughts, and Dick could not hide the flash of eagerness that lit his eyes. Perhaps by this time she would have made up her mind whether he were to have “yes” or “no” for his answer.

“My going shall depend on whether Carmona’s here or not,” he said; and I turned to the landlord with a question. Did he know whether the Duke of Carmona and his mother had come, and brought friends to their palace in Granada?

The Spaniard laughed. He knew but too well, since the arrival of the distinguished family had roused something like an emeute in his and other hotels. Carmona palace was perhaps the most interesting show-place left in the town of Granada, except the tombs of los Reyes Católicos in the cathedral. It was the palace where Boabdil had fled from his father’s wrath; and after the Alhambra and the Generalife it was the one thing that tourists came to see. Now they were prevented from seeing it by the arrival of the Duke and Duchess, a calamity which did not happen in the high season once in ten years. If the house (which had in these days but one grand suite of furnished and habitable rooms) was occupied by its owners, it was usually for a few weeks in the height of summer, after strangers had ceased to come south; or else in the autumn, before the time for travellers. Now there was great dissatisfaction among the foreign visitors, who considered themselves defrauded of their rights. Yesterday morning several parties of tourists had insisted upon an entrance, and in the afternoon, in fulfilment of the Duke’s request, two civil guards had been stationed before the door to keep would-be intruders at a distance.

This did not seem a hopeful outlook for me, in case I wished to try some such coup d’état as I had planned in Seville. But there would be other ways of reaching Monica, I told myself, when the landlord had gone on to say that the Duke was supposed to be seriously ill. If Carmona were suffering, he would not be able to watch the members of his household as closely as before, and it ought not to be impossible to let Monica know that I was in Granada. Once she understood that I was ready and waiting to take her away, means would be found to reach her.

There was only time, when Dick had finally decided to go, for a bath and breakfast before I spun him down to the station for the morning train.

Meanwhile I had learned that every room in our landlord’s two hotels was occupied, for it was the most crowded season. But I was to have a villa belonging to the hotels given to me for my entire use, a villa in an old Moorish garden of tinkling fountains, flowing rills, rose-entwined miradores, jasmine arbours, myrtle hedges, and magnolia trees. The Carmen de Mata Moros was to be mine for as few days or as many weeks as I chose to remain. Satisfied, therefore, that I should not have to camp under the trees of the park, I determined, when I had seen Dick off, to put up the car in the town of Granada, and reconnoitre the neighbourhood of the Carmona palace.

An inquiry here and there took me to the street without much delay. The palace, sacred to memories of Boabdil, his gentle Sultana Zorayda, and his stern mother Ayxa, was to be found on the outskirts of the Albaicín, that part of Granada once favoured by the Moorish aristocracy, now almost given up to the poorer Spaniards, and gypsies rich enough and sophisticated enough to desert their caves. Ferdinand and Isabel had granted the house to a rich Moorish noble who had fore-sworn his religion to help them in their wars, and who became the first Duque de Carmona, owner of many estates and many palaces.

My landlord had not been misinformed. The fine entrance, with its fifteenth century Spanish coat of arms over the Moorish portal, was kept by two civil guards. I walked up, and with the air of a tourist, inquired how soon the palace would be open to visitors. The men could not tell me. Was the Duke ill? They believed so. And as I could get nothing further from them I walked away.

Above, on the hill, clustered the red towers of the Alhambra. I fancied that in those towers there must be windows which overlooked the patio of Boabdil’s old palace, and I resolved to prove this presently, but I was not yet ready to leave the Albaicín.

I had brought down my Kodak as an excuse for lingering, and now I began, within sight of Carmona’s doors, to take leisurely snapshots. When I had been thus engaged for nearly half an hour, I saw a young woman, evidently a servant, leaving the palace with a small bundle under her arm; and without appearing to notice her, I strolled in the direction she was taking. Once beyond eyeshot of the civil guards, I spoke to the girl, taking off my hat politely.

“You are from the Duke of Carmona’s?” I said. “I am an acquaintance of his, and intended to call, but I hear he is seeing no one.”

“That is true, señor,” replied the girl, a handsome creature of the gypsy type, with bold eyes which took in every detail of my features and clothing. “His Grace arrived very fatigued and is obliged to lie in bed; which is inconvenient, as there are foreign guests who must be so constantly entertained by Her Grace the Duchess, that she has no time to nurse her son.”

“I trust he has a clever doctor,” said I.

“Oh, a very clever one,” the girl answered eagerly. “Not an ordinary physician, but a wonderful person. My brother knows him well, and goes into the Sierra to find herbs and flowers for his medicines and balsams.”

Evidently the girl was proud of the acquaintance, and I humoured her.

“Such remedies are good in cases of fever and malaria,” I said.

“And for many other things,” she persisted. “His Grace has contracted some poisoning of the hand. I do not know how; but he is better already, and will no doubt soon be well. If the señor would care to send a line of sympathy, I might arrange for it to reach the Duke. At present not even the most intimate friends are admitted, but I am in the confidence of Her Grace’s maid, who came with her from Seville. Indeed I’m now on the way to do an errand for her.”

I caught at this opening.