High on the hill Colonel O’Donnel pointed out the Alcázar of many
vicissitudes, long since turned into a military academy, which has made
Toledo to Spain what Woolwich is to England. “There your father and I went
to school,” said he. “I come every year or two, and wander about with my
thoughts.”
With this, he began bowing right and left to young officers who sauntered
inside the gateway. Nearly everyone knew and seemed delighted to see him;
indeed, who could see the excellent Cherub, and not be glad?
He himself was happy. “There go your father and I!” he exclaimed, picking
out the two best-looking infants in a procession of incredibly small boys
proudly wearing a smart uniform. “Oh, where are the girls who used to
smile at us?”
So we drove into the Moorish-looking stronghold, through a labyrinth of
steeply ascending tunnels which were streets. They were so narrow that I
would not have believed the car could scrape along without smashing the
mud-guards, had not the Cherub valiantly urged us on, with assurances that
it could be done. And always we did slide through, the sides of the Gloria
so close to open doors and windows that we could have reached into dark
rooms, and helped ourselves to loaves of bread, brass cooking vessels,
coarse green pottery, jars of flowers, or astonished babies.
There was no space for dwellers in these shadowed lanes to rush from their
houses before our car, when warned by the “choof, choof” of the motor as
we rattled over the “agony stones,” that something extraordinary was
coming; but mothers shrieked for their offspring, while young girls hailed
their friends to the free show; and men, women, and children jostled each
other good-naturedly in every window and door as we approached, pouring
out in our wake, though seemingly half afraid even then that the dragon
might take to charging back upon them.
Beautiful faces peered from behind rusty bars, with eyes to tempt any man
to “eat iron,” as the saying is. Dark men with sun-warmed eyes, and black
heads wrapped in handkerchiefs of scarlet silk, stared curiously at
Pilar’s veil; and when we emerged from the stone-and-plaster labyrinth,
into a wider space where the hotel stands like an ancient palace, we were
swamped by the laughing crowd which had formed into a trotting procession
behind us.
Just as the marble whiteness of the _patio_ cooled our eyes, down the
stairs came those with whom my thoughts had raced ahead; the Duchess of
Carmona; Monica and her mother; behind them the Duke.
Monica grew rose-red at sight of us. Her elders, not in the Duke’s
confidence concerning the Gloria’s disabilities, appeared as little
surprised as pleased; but Carmona’s various and visible emotions included
extreme astonishment. I looked at him, my cap off for the ladies, smiling
and nonchalant as if nothing had happened since our last meeting; and
despite the self-control inherited from Oriental ancestors, for an instant
he tried in vain to hide mingled rage and bewilderment. Possibly he might
have fancied that we had come by train, had not Ropes been starting the
car at that moment, _en route_ for some resting-place masquerading as a
garage; and the “choof, choof” of my Gloria came in through the open doors
like a defiant laugh.
Then he must have wondered how, by all that was demoniac, we had contrived
to track him to Toledo!
“This is quite a surprise, Señor Duque!” said I, as we met in the _patio_
at the foot of the stairs.
“Ye—es,” he answered, tugging at his moustache, and wishing us and our car
on some uninhabited planet.
“And a great pleasure!”
“Um—er—of course,” he mumbled; and I dared not meet Monica’s laughing
eyes, lest our lips should laugh as well.
They went to lunch; but we were not many moments behind, and Pilar,
murmuring in my ear, “Cats may look at a king, whether the king likes or
not,” gaily selected a table next to the others. She then kept up a stream
of talk with Monica, exchanging impressions of Madrid. “Didn’t you love
the shops?” she asked. “And shall you buy Toledo things to-day; scarf-pins
and hatpins and paper-knives; or did you buy too many yesterday?”
“I think I bought _just enough_,” said Monica, with a quick smile. “But I
shall get more here. We’re going to a metal work-shop, after the
cathedral.”
But this was sheer audacity, and was punished as I feared it would be.
Not wishing to pursue with too conspicuous violence, lest we defeat our
object, we let Carmona’s party leave the dining-room before us. A quarter
of an hour later we followed, going out into the strange grey streets,
haunted by men and women who have made history. Dick (armed with a book by
Leonard Williams, greatest of authorities on Spain) was allowed to walk
beside Pilar, while that most unsuspecting and kindly of chaperons, the
Cherub, bestowed his society on me. But, according to his habit, he was
often silent, giving me time to dream of Toledo’s past.
Picturesque enough were the figures of to-day in the old grey capital of
the Visigoths, yet they were not as real for me as other figures which
only my mind’s eye could see.
Here was the long, flat façade of the building legend had chosen as the
palace of Wamba the Benefactor—the Farmer King. I saw the old man waking
to life in the dungeon where the treachery of one loved and trusted had
thrown him, dressed in the monkish garb which never again could be changed
for robes of state. I saw a haggard company of Jews marching into
“Tarshish,” scarred and bleeding from the persecutions of Nebuchadnezzar
who had flung them from Jerusalem. I saw Moorish men fighting to take
Toledo—the “Lookout,” “the Light of the World,” and fighting again to save
it for themselves.
There, in the towering Alcázar, had Rodrigo betrayed his beautiful queen,
Egilona, for the still more beautiful Florinda, daughter of Julian,
Espatorios of Spain; at least, so legend said, mingling the romantic music
of its ballads inextricably with the deep organ notes of history. Below,
on the cliff above the Tagus, in the Tower of Hercules, had Rodrigo taken
the painted linen cloths from the enchanted casket, and seen the awful
vision of the Moorish horde with his own figure fleeing before them, one
day when he forgot the prophecy which warned all kings of Spain against
entering that mysterious, locked door.
Up this narrow street in the town, behind that barred window with its
curious cannon-ball decorations, perhaps the incomparable Doña Flor of
Dumas’ “Bandit” had smiled and pierced the heart of the “Courier of Love”
with her beauty.
It was like awaking from a brilliant dream when the Cherub stopped
abruptly, to point up at the vast, incongruous bulk of the cathedral
towering over us. But there was nothing incongruous in the rich, Gothic
splendour within; and my sole shock of disappointment came when I gave up
hope of finding Monica.
They had punished her by changing their plan of campaign, and I must seek
her elsewhere. But I could not wrench my friends from this great monument
of Spanish glory, merely because I cared more to look on Monica Vale’s
face than the face of any saint, carved or painted by a master’s hand.
I stayed, therefore, finding such consolation as I could in the jewelled
gleam of rare old glass, the magnificence of bronze doors; tombs of kings
and heroes; and all the wonders of gold, silver, pearls, and diamonds
which, stored in the sacristy, do honour to the famous Black Virgin, the
cathedral’s Queen.
Coming out again into the town was like stepping with a single stride back
from Europe into Africa; for nowhere can Moslem and Christian
civilizations be more closely tangled than in Toledo. Moorish streets were
like scimitar strokes cleft deep in the city; narrow chasms lined with
secretive houses, giving here and there a glimpse of some bright, flowery
_patio_, through half-open doors studded with iron bosses, and heavy
enough to resist a siege; yet above the tiled roofs soared Christian
spires in the translucent blue.
No one cared for us now that we were no longer gods in a car, except an
occasional beggar, to whom the Cherub would murmur, “God will aid you,
sister!” “Pardon me, brother!” and then, changing his mind, drop a penny
into a withered old hand, or a pink, childish palm.
“They’ll leave the shopping to the last, because Lady Monica told us it
was to be done first,” said Pilar sagely; so we wandered through the
shabby aisles of Rag Fair, Pilar hoping against hope to unearth a
treasure; because, did not a man once pick up, for a song, a Greco worth a
fortune, and did not one always find something at least amusing in the Rag
Fair of Madrid? Thence we went on to the Moorish mosque, which the
Visigoths began, and so to San Juan de los Reyes, which, Pilar said, I
must like better than anything else in Toledo, because she did. With an
air of possession she explained the votive chains of captive Christians
darkly festooning the outer walls, and I did not tell her I had heard the
story long ago. She shuddered as she pointed to the crucifix which used to
go with the procession of the _auto-da-fé_. “Only think how different
times are now!” said she. “When Philip the Second was going to be married
to his bride, not fourteen, a great show in honour of the marriage was a
burning of heretics, here in the Zoco—the market-place of Toledo! I
shouldn’t have cared much to see a royal wedding then. I don’t even like
to look at that crucifix, it gives me such thoughts. But see, aren’t those
carved stone galleries where Ferdinand and Isabel used to hear mass, like
two great chased silver goblets? I hope the king and queen never sat there
watching the poor wretches bound before marching off to the Zoco to die;
but I’m sure Isabel wouldn’t: she was so sweet, she must often have wished
she hadn’t made that awful promise to Torquemada.”
“You’re Catholic, yet you say that!” I exclaimed, as we stood looking at
the gorgeous shields of Los Reyes Católicos. Dick was near, listening with
concealed eagerness for the girl’s answer,—and no wonder, since he was
Protestant, and not the man to be a turncoat, even for his love.
“Oh yes, I’m Catholic,” said she. “But,”—half whispering,—“Spaniards, even
the most ardent Catholics, didn’t really love the Inquisition. It was
thrust on them; and—I suppose in those brutal old days it was a horrible
excitement to see the burnings. It’s natural to us Latins to have
excitement; and after years of such dreadful ones as we had in those
times, do you wonder the people clamour for bull-fights?”
“Then you don’t think we Protestants deserve burning?” asked Dick, staring
at the crucifix.
“How can you ask such a question?”
“But you—couldn’t make a real _friend_ of one, I suppose, or—er—let
yourself care about one much?”
“I should try and convert him—or her.”
“Supposing you couldn’t?”
“Then, I’d have to like him—or her—in spite of all. And he—or she—would
have to leave my religion alone. But I’m tired of solemn things; and
brother Cristóbal’s dying to buy metal-work.”
I don’t think that Dick knew whether he had been encouraged or not. And he
must have remembered that the Conde de Roldan is the best and most
eligible of Catholics. Poor Dick! Perhaps he was beginning to realize how
much easier it is to advise another man to be sensible than to be sensible
yourself.
Pilar had been right in her surmises as to the workings of Carmona’s mind.
When we came to the showroom of the Fabrica de Espadas, where the dusk was
shot with a thousand gleams and glitters of strange weapons, there were
those we had sought in vain till now. The Duchess, yellow with fatigue,
was resting her stout person on a bench in the long, low room, Lady
Vale-Avon beside her, looking tired and bored. But Carmona was at the
glass-covered counter, begging Monica’s advice in the selection of his
purchases.
His back was towards us as we entered, and, unnoticed by him, we saw him
hold up to the light a small sharp dagger, with a handle beautifully
ornamented. He was indicating with his finger, for Monica’s benefit, the
delicate tracery upon gold, when, warned by lack of attention and
wandering glances on the part of his companion, he turned in our
direction. Then, hastily laying down the dagger, he pushed it away as
though resenting the intrusion of our eyes.
“After all, we went to the Cave of Hercules,” said Monica, “and to the
house where the Moorish nobles were supposed to be murdered; so we missed
you when we got to the cathedral. Señorita O’Donnel, do come and help me
choose presents for some girls at home, in England.”
She spoke brightly, yet wistfully, as if wondering whether she would be
allowed to go back to those girls, a girl herself, and able to call
England home.
Pilar crossed to her at once, and Dick and I followed. The good Cherub
tactfully engaged the attention of the Duchess and Lady Vale-Avon, looking
so innocent that it was more than they could do to be rude to him. And
while the Duke sulked, we picked out wonderful knives and forks for our
luncheon-hampers, and thin sword-sticks of leather which imitated bamboo
and concealed blades so flexible that they could be rolled up like
watch-springs.
“Let’s all buy presents for each other, in memory of the day,” suggested
Dick; and began by offering Pilar a pair of splendid hatpins. She
retaliated with sleeve-links; so, emboldened by this prelude, I begged
Monica to accept a brooch shaped like a shield. “Now I shall never lack
protection,” said she, with gentle emphasis; and it was well for me that
the Cherub was showing Lady Vale-Avon some marvellous sword passes. “Let
me see,” the girl went on, when she had defiantly pinned the trinket into
her lace cravat, under Carmona’s furious frown. “What shall I give you for
luck? Shall it be a dagger? Where’s the one you were looking at, Duke?”
“I don’t know,” he answered, so angry with me for my presumption that he
could hardly speak, though not daring to show his true feelings and
imperil his chances. “It seems to have disappeared. But we must really go
at once. My mother is tired, and we still have several things to see
before I can take you back to the hotel to rest.”
Purposely, he spoke in a loud tone, and Lady Vale-Avon heard through the
Cherub’s honeyed murmurs. She rose, and called Monica, who was swept away
without finding the dagger.
It was dinner-time when we returned to our hotel; but Carmona’s party did
not appear in the dining-room. We lingered on hoping that they would come,
until it was useless to hope longer, and as we drank black coffee, in the
_patio_, Colonel O’Donnel asked a waiter where were the people who had
lunched with us. “They have taken a private sitting-room,” replied the
man, which was a relief, as I began to be haunted by black fear that
Carmona had flitted by night.
By and by Pilar’s long lashes drooped, and the Cherub, catching her in the
act of stifling a yawn, laughingly ordered her off to bed. “You haven’t
had enough sleep these last few nights to keep a _cigarron_ alive,” said
he. Soon afterwards his own eyes began to look like those of a sleepy
child, and he excused himself with all the ceremony of Spanish
leave-takings. Dick and I were left alone together, and were discussing
what the morrow might bring forth, when a waiter hovered near us, bowing.
“The Excelentísima Señora Duquesa de Carmona would consider it a favour if
Señor Waring and Teniente O’Donnel would visit her in her sitting-room,”
he announced.
Were the heavens about to fall? My lifted eyebrows and Dick’s questioned
each other in bewilderment. But our lips were silent as we followed the
servant.
The sitting-room of the “Excelentísima Señora” was on the first floor,
perhaps a big bedroom hastily transformed. What we expected to see as the
waiter opened the door I hardly know; but we assuredly did not expect to
see the Duchess sitting alone.
The table where the party had dined was covered now by a piece of gaudy,
pseudo-Moorish embroidery, and adorned with flowers. A few guide-books and
novels were scattered about, and in her hand the Duchess held a
paper-covered volume, as if she had been reading. But the expression of
the dark, heavy face contradicted her pose. We could see that she was
excited.
“Forgive my not rising, as I am tired,” she said, as we came in. “It is
kind of you to be so prompt, and I thank you.” Then she paused, and we
waited.
“I beg you to sit down. I want the pleasure of a talk.”
We obeyed. And still waited.
“I am a little embarrassed,” went on the Duchess. “You must be patient.
What I wish to say is difficult. And yet the Señor Teniente, being himself
Spanish, will understand. We are in Spain, the land of formality and rigid
etiquette, among people of our class. That an automobile with two young
unmarried men in it (and even Colonel O’Donnel is a widower, not old)—that
such an automobile should be closely following ours which contains a
beautiful girl, is calculated to cause gossip. Everywhere we go along this
route my son and I have acquaintances, friends; and already there has been
talk, which flies from place to place in gossiping letters between women.
I am sure you would not like to think that you had caused me this distress
on account of my sweet young guest and her mother?”
Never had I been more completely taken aback. She had us at her mercy; for
how is a man to fight against a woman?
“We are motoring in your direction,” I said lamely. “The chances of the
road bring us together.”
“Ah! but I ask you, as a woman of my age may ask a favour of young men
like you, señores, not to take those chances. If it is as you say—and of
course I believe—that you happen to be motoring on our road, it would be
no great hardship to delay and give us a longer start. Remember, it is for
the sake of a young girl, and for an old woman’s peace of mind. Will you
do this kindness, then, for me?”
She had struck me dumb. I did not know how to answer her, and she knew it.
Even Dick, with his quick Yankee wit, for once was unready. And indeed,
the Duchess had us at a hateful disadvantage.
“We are in something of a hurry, Señora Duquesa,” I stammered awkwardly.
“Then, rather than cause you loss of time, we will be off very early, and
go as far as may be in the day. If we leave at—let us say seven o’clock
to-morrow, it would not be too inconvenient for you to wait till nine?
That is all I ask; and to stay the night at Manzanares instead of trying
to get on to some other stopping place. If you promise this, you are
honourable men, and I know you will keep your word.”
She had her lesson well, and had evidently rehearsed it with her son, for
this lymphatic, weary-eyed woman was not one to know in advance the names
of halting places on an automobile tour. It was clever of Carmona to use
his mother’s plump hand as a cat’s-paw to pull his chestnuts from the
fire; but it was not brave, because he must know that we could not let it
touch the flames.
I thought for a moment in silence. Only boors could in so many words
refuse such a request, put with apparent frankness by a woman old enough
to be their mother. Yet I must not be trapped into promising anything that
could separate me from Monica.
To be near her, at her service always, was the one thing of supreme
importance; but to throw aside my sheep’s clothing and declare myself a
wolf would be to lose her; for the instant that Carmona was sure of my
identity he would denounce me. I would be sent across the frontier while
Monica remained with him, unprotected save by her mother, who was his
loyal friend. This was sure to happen, even if I did not count the trouble
I might cause Colonel O’Donnel if I were arrested while posing as his son.
It seemed to me that we must agree to do what the Duchess asked, and,
while keeping the letter of our promise, take means to see Monica in
Seville. There, I must let her know all that had taken place, even if I
could not communicate with her before. And I must implore her to come away
with me lest some plot had been hatched meanwhile behind my back.
“What do you think, Waring?” I said. Then, giving him a cue, “I feel that
we must consent, even though we may not see things according to the
Duchess’s point of view.”
“Why, of course, a man can’t refuse a lady; a lady generally knows that,”
Dick answered, avenging our wrongs with one sharp dig.
She thanked us effusively. “Then I may depend on you?” she asked, looking
at me.
“You may depend upon us,” I said. “And pray don’t trouble to leave at an
inconvenient time. My friend and I promise you two hours’ start.”