“Now I know there’s some mistake—dreadful, but not too dreadful to clear
up.”
I laughed again, as bitterly as I felt this time. “Extraordinary idea!
Because she says she doesn’t want to see me, there’s a mistake—”
“Of course. Surely you aren’t so cold-hearted, so disloyal, so—so _stupid_
as to believe her? But tell me instantly all about it—everything; every
word; every look.”
“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.”