Part 84

Out again, and still up, the beams from our lamps shooting across vineyards, plantations of figs and pomegranates, and striking silver from the curves of the Guadalbullon River. A glimpse of an old castle commanding a dark gorge, and we were at Jaen; then, presently, the road became familiar, for we had travelled it before. At this very corner we had stopped to ask the way of men who carried strange implements like fire-extinguishers, for this was Bailen; but now, instead of receiving our first glimpse of Andalucía, we were leaving it behind.

Eighty miles out of two hundred and seventy we had come, though the pace had not been good. Still the rain was ceasing, and we could make up for lost time, as country traffic had not begun yet.

La Carolina, Santa Elena; the road was mounting for the well-remembered defile of Despeñaperros. Hoot! went the siren, screaming along the face of tremendous cliffs, and a louder shriek rang as if an echo. A line of fire down in the gorge meant the train from Madrid to Seville. It glittered like a string of stars drawn across a spider’s-web viaduct, then vanished into a tunnel, while we swept on towards the plains of La Mancha, Ropes crouched like a goblin over his wheel.

Rain again, blurring villages, and sweeping through the stone streets of a town: fields once more, and at last Manzanares. There Dick insisted that we should stop for food, lest strength fail me when I should need it most; but I could not bear to go back to the fonda I knew, to see the pretty girls there look at my pale face with shocked eyes, perhaps to have them question me about the “white and gold angel.”

It was eight o’clock when we got away from the café, where we had spent some twenty minutes; and the road was no longer clear. We were obliged to moderate our speed, and lost more time than we could afford getting on to Aranjuez.

“Do your best now, Ropes,” I was saying, when the Gloria—for once perverse—burst a tyre with a loud explosion. Ropes threw me a rueful look.

“I’d hoped to get through without trouble, sir,” he said, “but the car’s lain up for more than five weeks, and there was no time last night to look her over.”

“You’ve done splendidly,” I assured him. “I’ll get out with Mr. Waring and stretch my legs.”

I was glad to walk, and still more glad to feel that instead of being exhausted as Dick had prophesied, strength seemed coming back. As we strolled up and down, so sure was I of Dick’s sympathy that I began to talk about my hopes and fears. He did not disappoint me, but once or twice he answered absent-mindedly, with a far-off look in his eyes, and suddenly, with a pang of remorse, I remembered that I had not once referred to the progress of his love affairs. My own had preoccupied me to the exclusion of everything outside, and I had spoken of Pilar’s only in connection with Monica.

Anathematizing myself aloud as an ungrateful and ungracious brute, I asked if Pilar had made up her mind.

“You needn’t blame yourself,” he said. “All this time she’s kept me on tenter-hooks, because, though she admitted liking me, she couldn’t reconcile her heart with her conscience. I got the dear old Cherub’s blessing, and flaunted it in her face; but that wasn’t enough. I also argued that it was her duty to marry me and try to make me as good as herself, but she seemed to think it might work out the other way. Then you disappeared, and the last word she said was that if I found you, she’d take it as a sign that San Cristóbal wanted the match; seems he’s a matchmaking saint, when he’s in Spain, as well as a motoring one. So, you see, she’ll have to keep her promise now; and I’ll owe my happiness to you.”

“I haven’t come back to life in vain, then,” I said. “It will be a good moment for me, whatever happens, when I see my little sister Pilar again.”

“She’ll be at the royal bull-fight,” Dick sighed.

“I thought she hated bull-fights—for Vivillo’s sake.”

“It’s for Vivillo’s sake she’s going. She’s moved heaven and earth to get invitations.”

“And she’s succeeded.”

“Thereby hangs a tale. But I’m not going to bother you with it.”

I insisted, urging him the more to atone for past carelessness.

“Well, then,” he said with another sigh, “Vivillo’s fifth bull in the royal fight to-day.”

I was shocked, knowing how Pilar loved the noble brown beast, and how she had counted on possessing him. But, if I had had my wits about me, I might have guessed last night how matters stood. Dick had told me then that, in the impromptu scene between Carmona and the O’Donnels, with Seville railway station for the stage, “the name of Vivillo had unfortunately come up.” Now, Dick explained that Carmona had caught at the girl’s hasty words, had written his agent at the ganadería instructing him not to part with the bull at any price, no matter how far negotiations had gone with Colonel O’Donnel. A day or two later the agent was directed by telegram to send Vivillo immediately to Madrid, as the Duke had offered him as a gift for the great show of the royal bull-fight. This news had come to Pilar at Granada in an ill-spelled, but well-meaning letter from Mateo, the ganadero.

“It was sheer spite,” went on Dick, “and Pilar was broken-hearted. If she hadn’t blurted out Vivillo’s name in a temper, the bull might have been safe. Carmona wouldn’t have interested himself, as he trusts his agent in all business matters. It’s true several of the grandee owners of bull-farms have been asked to give each a picked bull for the royal fight, which is expected to be the grandest affair of the generation; but Carmona could as well have given another instead of Vivillo.”

“It’s like him,” I said. “Poor Pilar!”

“She’s simply ill. But queerly enough, she hasn’t given up hope yet—or hadn’t when she wrote, and enclosed an invitation-ticket she’d contrived to get for me. She begged me to come if I could, and ‘see her through,’ though I haven’t the vaguest notion what she means. All I know is, she and the Cherub have been doing everything they could till the last minute to make an exchange of bulls. The dear old chap rushed off to Madrid, as I said, to stir up the police in your affair; and Pilar hoped she might get a chance to see Lady Monica, and ask what the dickens she meant by throwing you over. But any spare time the two had, I guess they’ve put in for Vivillo. They bought a fine Muira bull, at a tiptop price, and offered it to the authorities in exchange for Vivillo, who has been at pasture for the last ten days, recruiting after being boxed up for his long railroad journey. Whether Carmona had a hand in that part or not, anyhow nothing could be done.”

“And Pilar is going to see her pet die!” I exclaimed.

“I can’t understand the Cherub allowing that,” said Dick. “I went to a bull-fight with him the day after I got back to Seville. Jove, it was a sickener, though there were some fine moments, I admit; and I can understand how Spaniards, brought up to understand every stroke, every move, think it fine sport. But it isn’t sport for amateurs, and I haven’t been able to swallow beef since; feel as if I’d been on visiting terms with it. Last touch of horror, each bull having a name. Great Scott! how would it feel to be as intimate as that with sheep and chickens, so you could speak of frying Lottie for breakfast, or grilling Maud with peas for lunch? Of course, the royal bull-fight will be wonderful—something only seen when a Spanish king marries—but I hate the thought of Pilar being there.”

“Her father’ll be with her,” I tried to console him.

“No, he won’t. His seat’s in a box. Hers has been given in Tendido Number 9, a space set apart for the senoritas de la aristocracia to sit together, in smart dresses and mantillas, as if they were part of the show.”

“Perhaps Monica will be there,” I said quickly.