‘Oh, yes,’ she said, her face quivering slightly. ‘Poor Peter!’
‘And then … well, I daresay it’ll be best if you face up to things now. I’m trying to give you good advice, and that’s the best I can manage.’
‘You’re wonderful,’ she assured him gratefully.
‘And I’ll go. I’ll go to the Cathedral this afternoon.’
She told Senor Rivel that she wanted to go to Mexico City that day, but because she couldn’t bring herself to go into details she didn’t tell her the reason. She simply said she hoped the older woman would not mind, and the Senora, discreetly making no enquiries, said she thought it an excellent idea.
They left the hotel at three o’clock, and they hadn’t been on the road long when Dick Weldon remarked that he thought the weather was breaking—as far as it ever does break in Mexico—and added that there was a likelihood that afternoon would see the first of the rains. Caroline didn’t feel like saying much, but as they speeded on towards the city he talked a good deal, in an easy, relaxed sort of way, and she was grateful for it. He told her about the afternoon downpours of the rainy season, and described how they swept over Mexico City punctually at tea-time, scattering the population and drenching the streets, only to pass on again, leaving the evening skies clear. And he talked about the humid forests of southern Mexico, and the glorious coastlines of the east and west, diverting her until she almost, but not quite, forgot the dull ache at the core of her being. And then at last they were moving into the outskirts of the city itself, and as they did so a little black cloud began to move up from the horizon.
‘Here she comes!’ said Dick cheerfully, and as Caroline watched she saw the cloud gradually get closer and bigger until it seemed to her to symbolize the cloud hovering over her life—the cloud growing steadily larger and darker as they drew nearer to the Cathedral. She tried to think herself into a more rational attitude of mind—to tell herself that the world simply wouldn’t come to an end because Diego Rivel married Isabel Dominguez, but she knew perfectly well that there was no point in telling herself anything of the kind.
Traffic jams held them up, and it was almost five o’clock by the time they drove into the Zocalo. The rain, Dick said, was a little late, but as they stopped outside the Cathedral the first huge drops were just beginning to fall, and within seconds the world was filled with the thunder of the downpour. With the resourcefulness that seemed to be a part of him, he produced a large and very serviceable umbrella, and beneath its shelter Caroline reached the haven of the Cathedral doorway untouched by moisture. There Dick had to leave her for a minute or two while he parked the car, but, as he pointed out, she could go in by herself. He would find her easily enough.
‘If,’ he remarked, ‘there is a wedding going on in there it’s a fairly quiet one. No gaping crowds, no nothing!’
He left her alone, and she stood looking up at the tall, closed doorway. Quite a number of people were hurrying into the Cathedral in search of shelter from the rain—she supposed they would probably do that whatever was going on inside—but even when they pulled the doors open she caught no glimpses of the interior. And at first she heard no sounds. But after a minute or two her ears caught the sound of intoning, and she knew for certain that something was happening inside. It might be an ordinary Mass, but—
A little dark Mexican woman came hurrying up the steps, tying a scarf over her head as she came. She pulled the Cathedral door open, and as she stepped inside she stopped, with a smile, and held it for Caroline, who had looked as if she were going in. As if in a trance, she followed the woman into the building.
Her first impression was that there were a great many candles burning, and a very large number of people kneeling in the pews. Near the high altar, in splendid vestments, there was a priest, and the people seemed to be murmuring responses. At first that was all she did take in.
And then she saw the two figures on the chancel steps. She stared at them, but they seemed to waver in the shimmering golden light, and she couldn’t make them out very clearly. Somebody drew her, well-meaningly, into a vacant seat, and she sat down, still staring.
She could recognize Isabel now—at least, she thought she could, but if it was Isabel she was standing on her own feet, and there was no sign of a wheelchair in sight. And the man beside her— surely it wasn’t Diego? They were quite a long distance away, and it was hard to see, but the man beside Isabel—if it was Isabel—had fair hair. Very fair hair, she was sure of it now. And he simply wasn’t Diego. He was wearing a grey lounge suit, and he looked more like an Englishman. In fact, he looked like … Peter?
Like a cold, cleansing wave, the truth washed over her. Everyone was kneeling down, and she fell to her knees too. They were sprinkling the young couple with incense, and the sweet, penetrating aroma began to fill the Cathedral. She heard the voice of the priest and tried to understand what he was saying, but her Spanish wasn’t good enough. And then, as if in a dream, she heard Peter’s voice, taking his marriage vows in Spanish.
Isabel followed, and her clear, pretty voice carried easily. She sounded confident and almost gay, and Caroline could almost feel the ripple of emotion that ran through the watching women as she pledged herself for life to the tall, golden-haired foreigner at her side.
The vows ended, and they knelt down. Caroline closed her eyes and tried to pray. This was her own brother’s wedding, and she hadn’t even had a chance to realize it yet. She couldn’t begin to think—to sort it all out. Would he be happy? Only time would tell, but her thoughts suddenly winged back to that evening, little more than a week ago, when Isabel had first told her of her love for Peter. She remembered the look in the Mexican girl’s eyes, and the ringing conviction in her voice—the same conviction that had just been heard all over the Cathedral—and her last doubts slipped away.
Suddenly, above their heads, the great organ came to life, and she realized that a choir had started to sing. In a moment of intense and triumphant beauty, and, unashamedly, she began to cry. As she lifted her eyes to the golden splendour of the candlelit nave huge tears rolled freely down her cheeks, and she knew that, whatever happened in her own life, this moment of Peter’s was something she would always remember.
And then something was quietly pushed into her hand, and she saw that it was a large and very immaculate white silk handkerchief. Surprised, she turned her head in embarrassment, and a voice said:
‘Keep it, little one—it will be for a souvenir, yes?’
Diego was kneeling beside her. Every bone in her body seemed to turn to water, and she was unable to speak.
He smiled at her. ‘Please don’t stop crying because I am here. You do it so charmingly.’
Her cheeks turned faintly pink.
‘You are happy?’ he asked.
She nodded … but it was rather an uncertain nod.
‘Completely happy?’ he persevered.
And then the singing stopped and the Nuptial Mass began, and being a good Catholic he said nothing more.
But when the ceremony was finally over, and the happy pair had retired to add their names to the records of Mexico City, he took her by the arm and drew her across the central aisle and over to the other side of the Cathedral. All the people who had come in to shelter from the rain and stayed to watch a wedding were beginning to stream out again into the early evening sunshine, chattering and laughing as they went, and only a small core of what were apparently the guests were left in the pews. But Diego took no notice even of the guests, and he didn’t stop until he had drawn her through a side door, and out into what was left of the soft warm daylight. The rain had apparently stopped some time before, but the pavements were still streaming, and everything looked fresh and curiously purified.
‘Ah!’ He drew a long breath. ‘Now we can talk, I think. We will walk around the Cathedral. They will not miss us for a little while.’
She stood still, hesitating. ‘Senor,’ she asked, lifting her eyes to his face, ‘did you—did you
plan all this?’
‘All what, senorita?’
‘The wedding and everything.’
‘Well, I think, as is usual in such cases, the bride and bridegroom were mainly responsible for it.’
‘But I mean, you arranged everything for them … didn’t you?’
‘Ah, well, perhaps I did. With the help and advice of my grandmother, to whom I spoke daily by telephone. When I followed Isabel back here, you see, I discovered that she had made arrangements to elope with Peter. That did not seem to me very suitable, and as I did not in any case intend to place obstacles in their path I decided to arrange something a little more in keeping with the highly respectable life which I trust they will be living in the future.’
‘But I thought you disapproved…’
‘I disapproved at first, because I thought that the difference between their nationalities would make a successful marriage impossible. Now, however, my mind has changed. Completely.’
‘I can’t think why nobody told me what was happening,’ she said foolishly. ‘Your grandmother—’
‘My grandmother had strict instructions not to tell you anything. You were to be surprised.’
‘Oh!’
‘I wanted to give you pleasure,’ he said softly, looking rather intently into her face. ‘And to atone for many things.’
‘You have nothing to atone for,’ she said huskily, dropping her eyes. They were standing in an angle of the Cathedral, and there was no one in sight, but she felt confused.
‘No?’ Quite unexpectedly, he put out a finger and touched her cheek. ‘Is it true that you don’t hate me?’ he wanted to know.
‘Yes, of course it is.’
‘Don’t you think you could go a little further than that?’
She murmured something inaudible.
‘You see,’ he went on, rather unsteadily, ‘I love you, amada—I love you desperately. You are a fragile little English flower, and yet I have many times been so angry with you … but it was only because I knew that you represented the whole of my future life. You must have known I loved you—you must have known it at Teotihuacan.’
Wordlessly, she shook her head.
‘I thought then,’ he said, ‘that you had some feeling for me. But there was the shock of my grandmother’s illness, and afterwards you were so cold and remote. I thought I had offended you, and I was almost afraid to speak to you. But now … Caroline,’ he pleaded, his pronunciation of her name giving it a sound she had never heard before, ‘can’t you tell me—can’t you say …?’ And then she lifted her eyes to his, and she saw there was a softness in the sloe-black depths she had never seen there before—not even when he was with his grandmother. She uttered a curious little sobbing sound, and he caught her in his arms and held her tightly.
‘Amada,’ he breathed, ‘oh, my darling.’
‘I do love you,’ she said, the words tumbling over one another in her haste to get them out at last. ‘I love you terribly. I didn’t know it was possible to love anyone so much. And I’ve been so miserable…’
‘You will never be miserable again,’ he promised extravagantly, stroking her hair.
A car passed them, and she moved a little. ‘Somebody will see us,’ she said.
‘Nobody will see us,’ he assured her soothingly. ‘But does it matter if they do? This may be a strange place in which to ask you to marry me, but I am not going to wait until we find ourselves in more suitable surroundings. Will you marry me, my white rose?’
‘Yes,’ she whispered ecstatically. ‘Oh, yes!’
‘Then in two minutes’ time we will go straight into the Cathedral, and we will ask that priest who has just married your brother and Isabel if some day soon he will do the same thing for us. And after that, we will telephone my grandmother, who has been so anxious about us for so long.’
‘She has … been anxious?’
‘Very anxious. She knew long ago how much I loved you, and I think she suspected, although I did not, that you also liked me a little, but she was afraid that our quite disgraceful pride would never allow us to come together. I cannot wait to tell her she was wrong.’
‘Oh!’ Caroline looked horror-stricken. ‘I’ve just remembered something. Mr. Weldon—’
‘Yes, poor Mr. Weldon.’ He smiled. ‘I met him outside the Cathedral, as I was hurrying in, and he gave me what I thought at the time was a rather curious message. He asked me to wish you every happiness. And to tell you he was not fond of weddings.’
She laughed tremulously, ‘Poor—poor Dick!’
‘I am not inclined to sympathize with him. Isabel told me you loved him—although she afterwards admitted that she only did it to make me jealous, and induce me to admit my own feelings for you.’
Another thought occurred to her … a wonderful thought. ‘Isabel,’ she said. ‘She’s walking again.’
‘Yes.’ He looked thoughtful. ‘Her infirmity was, as doctors say, in her mind. Now that she is completely happy it has gone.’
‘I’m so glad,’ she said simply. ‘Life is rather wonderful, isn’t it?’
And then he kissed her, and in that moment she forgot everything else but the triumphant sound of the Cathedral bells as they rang out overhead.
The Mountains of Spring Page 16
