The Car of Destiny 11 – Williamson · Verses Across
Literature · Romance
The Car of Destiny 11María del Pilar to the Rescue
18
Literature · Romance
The Car of Destiny 11
María del Pilar to the Rescue
WilliamsonEnglish
At last, when the general confusion had subsided, I was able to impress upon the delightful pair that, if they would but speak very slowly, and kindly trouble themselves to give a word of three syllables, say, two of them (a punctilious habit disapproved in Andalucía) Señor Waring would be able to join the conversation. With true Spanish goodheartedness they did their best, though Heaven knows what it must have cost them. Dick also did his best, with a conscientious American pronunciation; but where tongues halted, eyes spoke a universal language, and we all got on so well that in ten minutes we might have known each other for ten years.
By the end of those minutes we were asked to the O’Donnel’s sitting-room, which had been furbished up out of a bedroom; and there Dick brought the famous letter of introduction and the white paper parcel tied with pink ribbon.
My name had not been mentioned by Angèle. I was merely a “friend of Mr. Waring’s”; and, it seemed, I had been designated vaguely thus in a previous letter in which our arrival had been prophesied. This had been Angèle’s way of leaving it open for me to introduce myself as I pleased; but now there was no secret with which I would not have felt safe in trusting our old friends the O’Donnels, so I gave them my real name.
The Cherub’s face lit up. “I knew your father well,” said he. “We learned soldiering together as boys, though he was four or five years my senior, and the hero of my youth. Our ideas”—--he coughed in an instant’s embarrassment—“were different. This separated us. But I never forgot him. He was a great man; and it’s an event to meet his son. When I saw you downstairs in the dining-room, it was like going back thirty years. Such a young man as you are now, was your father when I had my last sight of him. You are his living portrait.”
We shook hands; and I believe, with the slightest encouragement, the dear old fellow would have planted a kiss on each of my cheeks. That he did not, was a tribute to my English education.
The next thing was, that at Dick’s request I was telling them everything; and as Pilar listened to the story which prefaced my errand in Spain, her eyes, which had been stars, became suns. When I spoke Carmona’s name, she and her father uttered an exclamation.
“El Duque de Carmona!” echoed the Cherub.
“He!” cried Pilar. And they looked at each other.
For a single second, I asked myself if my frankness had been a mistake.
“You know the Duke?” I asked.
“Santa María, but do we know him!” breathed the girl. “I wish we could tell you no.”
“You don’t like him?”
“Do we like the Duke, Papa?”
The good Cherub shook his head portentously. “The Duke of Carmona is a bad man,” he said. “He has not done us any harm—”.
“Oh—oh!” Pilar cut him short. “He has not driven into a convent one of my best-loved friends?”
“My daughter refers to a sad story,” explained her father. “In Madrid it made a stir at the time. He jilted a school friend of Pilarcita’s. That is almost an unheard-of thing in Spain; but he did it. The young girl’s family got into trouble at Court—an insignificant affair; but the Duke is ambitious of favour. He had something to retrieve, after the scandal during the Spanish-American War, when he was quite a young man—not more than twenty-four—and—”
“You mean, the story that he speculated in horses—bought wretched crocks cheap and sold them to the army for the cavalry, with the connivance of the vets he’s supposed to have bribed?”
“Yes. He managed to clear himself; but the royalties looked at him coldly, and he is not a man to bear that. The father of the girl—Pilarcita’s friend—was at one time much liked by the young King, and people thought it was Carmona’s motive for engaging himself. With the first breath of the storm the Duke was off; and the discarded fiancée entered as a novice the convent where she and my daughter went to school. That is why Pilarcita so much dislikes him—”
“But it’s not all!” cried the girl. “What about the grey bull, poor Corcito.”
Colonel O’Donnel laughed his gentle, chuckling laugh.
“Our home is close to a ganadería—a bull-farm of the Duke’s near Seville,” he explained indulgently. “The places adjoin; and as I’ve allowed this Pilarcita to grow up a wild girl, very different from the young ladies of Seville she should emulate, she has made friends of the Duke’s cattle. There were, some years ago, a grey bull that was as tame with her as a pet dog; but it took a dislike to the Duke, who came to have a look at his bulls once, and attacked him. The saying is that the Moorish blood in the Carmonas gives them a cruel temper. At all events, Carmona could not forgive the bull its disrespect, and promptly had it sent off to the slaughter-house, though it was a toro bravo.”
“That’s like him,” said I.
“There’s nothing he wouldn’t do against an enemy, or to gain a thing he wanted,” said Pilar, turning to me. “Take care, now he wants something you want.”
“It’s been so between our families for generations,” I said. “My grandfather ran away with the girl his grandfather wanted to marry, and my father and his in their youth had a furious lawsuit.”
“Which won?” asked the girl.
“My father.”
“Be sure he will remember,” said she. “Oh, how I wish we could help you! It would be such a revenge upon him for poor Eulalia and for Corcito. Papa, can’t we do something?”
“If we could,” echoed the Cherub, “for his father’s son!”
Suddenly the girl jumped up and clapped her hands. “Oh, I have thought of the thing!” she cried “It would be like a play.” But her face fell. “I don’t know how to propose it,” said she. “Perhaps you and Mr. Waring would disapprove. And how could we invite ourselves—”
She stopped; but I made her go on. “Please tell us,” I said. “It’s sure to be a splendid plan. And anything associated with you would bring luck.”
“This would be very much associated with us,” said she, laughing; “for the idea is that, instead of going home by rail as we meant to do, day after to-morrow, we go on in your car with you, pretending to be Mr. Waring’s guests, and you supposed to be my brother Cristóbal.”
“Pilarcita, some wild bird has built its nest in your brain,” said the Cherub.
“Wait till I finish!” the girl commanded. And it was easy to see that, though her father shook his head, she was a spoilt darling who could do nothing wrong.
“I only wish Cristóbal were here,” she went on, breathlessly; “but there was a regimental dinner, and he had to leave us. He’ll come in later, and you shall meet him, and hear what he says to the plan. Oh, there’s not much fear that he’ll object, when you are Angèle’s friend, and she’s doing all she can for you. He’d walk through fire to please Angèle. And this would be but to give up his leave—or at least the going home with us—and lending you his uniform, which I’m sure would fit you sweetly.”
I could not help laughing at the way she disposed of her brother and his plans, to say nothing of those she was making for me; but she rushed on, anxious to justify her counsel.
“You don’t understand yet,” she insisted. “It’s a wonderful idea. You see, papa and I have met the Duke in Madrid, at friends’ houses. I’ve scarcely spoken to him, for Spanish girls don’t have much chance to talk with men, but he’ll remember me, and papa too. The lucky thing is, he’s never seen my brother since Cristóbal was a little boy, and then no more than once or twice, when he came out to his ganadería. He must know, if he stops to think, that papa has a son; that’s all. And you say the Duke only saw you at the fancy dress ball, in a Romeo costume, with a fair wig. When Lady Monica Vale gave that start forward, and looked at you in the automobile, although you’d made your car different he fancied you might be in it, and telegraphed to have the man he suspected kept back at Iran. Well, it was clever of you to change with your chauffeur; but all the same, if you go on, dressed as a chauffeur, you can never have a chance to get near Lady Monica. And if you appear as yourself, even though the Duke isn’t sure it’s you, he’ll keep Lady Monica out of your way. And her mother will help him, as she wants them to marry. But think how different for my brother! We all happen to meet—suppose it’s in the cathedral—and papa says: ‘How do you do? You don’t remember Cristóbal?’ He’d simply have to accept you as Cristóbal, although he might find Cristóbal rather like that troublesome Marqués de Casa Triana.”
“Casa Triana is also Cristóbal,” I laughed. “Ramón Cristóbal.”
“All the better. We shouldn’t any of us have to fib. I always said Cristóbal is the luckiest saint to have for a patron. See how he’s offering his help to you. And oh, did you know he’s the patron saint of automobilists? To-morrow I’ll give you a Cristóbal medal to nail on your car. They’re made on purpose; such ducks! But now do you begin to understand what I’m driving at, and that it wasn’t just impudence to suggest our going in your automobile, papa and I? What with us, and San Cristóbal, you ought to get your foot on the Duke’s head.”
“But what about your brother Cristóbal?”
“Oh, he! We must all thank San Cristóbal that he has this leave, otherwise the Duke could easily find out; but instead of going home he can go—why, he can go to Biarritz, where he will see Angèle, so it will be nice all round. And imagine yourself in his uniform, walking with us in the cathedral, where the Duke is sure to take Lady Monica and her mother,—otherwise, why stop at Burgos? One comes for that, and nothing else, unless one has a little brother in the garrison. Now what do you say, Don Ramón?”
“I say you’re an angel,” I replied with promptness. “But I also say that Colonel O’Donnel won’t allow such an arrangement.”
“Oh, won’t he?” exclaimed Pilar. “Do you think I’m an ordinary girl of southern Spain, who says ‘yes, yes,’ and ‘no, no,’ as her parents wish, and looks down on the ground while life passes? Only to think of being like that is enough to make a woman grow a moustache and have an embonpoint out of sheer ennui. It’s my Irish heart which keeps my father and brother alive; and when I want to do a thing they hurry to let me do it lest I have a fit—of which I would be capable.”
“As you are a Cristóbal,” said the Cherub mildly, “it might be managed, if you liked, without our having to go more than an extra time to confession. I could wear the sin upon my conscience, if you could; and if you could wear also the uniform of my son.”
“I’d like to see Carmona’s face when you’re introduced,” remarked Dick, in his slow Spanish.
“You will see it,” exclaimed Pilar; and with this, the door opened and the other Cristóbal came in.
