X.
Dolores
"Oh, hearts that break and give no sign, Save whitening lip and fading tresses; Till death pours out his cordial wine, Slow dropped from misery's crushing presses If singing breath or echoing chord To every hidden pang were given, What endless melodies were poured, As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven."--O. W. Holmes
A great modern poet has compared the soul of man to a pilgrim who passesthrough the world staff in hand, never resting, ever pressing onwards tosome point as yet unattained, ever sighing wearily, "Alas! that _there_is never _here_." And with deep significance adds his Christiancommentator, "In Christ _there_ is _here_."
He who has found Christ "is already at the goal." "For he stills ourinnermost fears, and fulfils our utmost longings." "In him the dryland, the mirage of the desert, becomes living water." "He who knowshim knows the reason of all things." Passing all along the ages, wemight gather from the silent lips of the dead such words as these,bearing emphatic witness to what human hearts have found in him. Yet,after all, we would come back to his own grand and simple words, as bestexpressing the truth: "I am the bread of life;" "I will give you rest;""In me ye shall have peace."
With the peace which he gave there came to Carlos a strange newknowledge also. The Testament, from its first page to its last, becameintelligible to him. From a mere sketch, partly dim and partly blurredand blotted, it grew into a transparency through which light shone uponhis soul, every word being itself a star.
He often read his book to Dolores, though he allowed her to suppose itwas Latin, and that he was improvising a translation for her benefit.She would listen attentively, though with a deeper shade of sadness onher melancholy face. Never did she volunteer an observation, but shealways thanked him at the end in her usual respectful manner.
These readings were, in fact, a trouble to Dolores. They gave her pain,like the sharp throbs that accompany the first return of consciousnessto a frozen member, for they awakened feelings that had long beendormant, and that she thought were dead for ever. But, on the otherhand, she was gratified by the condescension of her young master inreading aloud for her edification. She had gone through the worldgiving very largely out of her own large loving heart, and expectinglittle or nothing in return. She would most gladly have laid down herlife for Don Juan or Don Carlos; yet she did not imagine that the oldservant of the house could be to them much more than one of the oaktables or the carved chairs. That "Senor Don Carlos" should takethought for her, and trouble himself to do her good, thrilled her with asensation more like joy than any she had known for years. Little dothose whose cups are so full of human love that they carry themcarelessly, spilling many a precious drop as they pass along, dream howothers cherish the few poor lees and remnants left to them.
Moreover Carlos, in the eyes of Dolores, was half a priest already, andthis lent additional weight, and even sacredness, to all that he saidand did.
One evening he had been reading to her, in the inner room, by the lightof the little silver lamp. He had just finished the story of Lazarus,and he made some remark on the grateful love of Mary, and the costlysacrifice by which she proved it. Tears gathered in the dark wistfuleyes of Dolores, and she said with sudden and, for her, most unusualenergy, "That was small wonder. Any one would do as much for him thatbrought the dear dead back from the grave."
"He has done a greater thing than even that for each of us," saidCarlos.
But Dolores withdrew into her ordinary self again, as some timidcreature might shrink into its shell from a touch. "I thank yourExcellency," she said, rising to withdraw, "and I also make myacknowledgments to Our Lady, who has inspired you with such true piety,suitable to your holy calling."
"Stay a little, Dolores," said Carlos, as a sudden thought occurred tohim; "I marvel it has so seldom come into my mind to ask you about mymother."
"Ay, senor. When you were both children, I used to wonder that you andDon Juan, while you talked often together of my lord your father, hadscarce a thought at all of your lady mother. Yet if she had lived _you_would have been her favourite, senor."
"And Juan my father's," said Carlos, not without a slight pang ofjealousy. "Was my noble father, then, more like what my brother is?"
"Yes, senor; he was bold and brave. No offence to your Excellency, forone you love I warrant me _you_ could be brave enough. But he loved hissword and his lance and his good steed. Moreover, he loved travel andadventure greatly, and never could bear to abide long in the sameplace."
"Did he not make a voyage to the Indies in his youth?"
"He did; and then he fought under the Emperor, both in Italy, and inAfrica against the Moors. Once His Imperial Majesty sent him on someerrand to Leon, and there he first met my lady. Afterwards he crossedthe mountains to our home, and wooed and won her. He brought her, thefairest young bride eyes could rest on, to Seville, where he had astately palace on the Alameda."
"You must have grieved to leave your mountains for the southern city."
"No, senor, I did not grieve. Wherever your lady mother dwelt was hometo me. Besides, 'a great grief kills all the rest.'"
"Then you had known sorrow before. I thought you lived with our housefrom your childhood."
"Not altogether; though my mother nursed yours, and we slept in the samecradle, and as we grew older shared each other's plays. At seven yearsold I went home to my father and mother, who were honest, well-to-dopeople, like all my forbears--good 'old Christians,' and noble--theycould wear their caps in the presence of His Catholic Majesty. They hadno girl but me, so they would fain have me ever in their sight. For tenyears and more I was the light of their eyes; and no blither lass everled the goats to the mountain in summer, or spun wool and roastedchestnuts at the winter fire. But, the year of the bad fever, both werestricken. Christmas morning, with the bells for early mass ringing inmy ears, I closed my father's eyes; and three days afterwards, set thelast kiss on my mother's cold lips. Nigh upon five-and-twenty yearsago,--but it seems like yesterday. Folks say there are many good thingsin the world, but I have known none so good as the love of father andmother. Ay de mi, senor, _you_ never knew either."
"When your parents died, did you return to my mother?"
"For half a year I stayed with my brother. Though no daughter ever shedtruer tears over the grave of better parents, I was not then quitebroken-hearted. There was another love to whisper hope, and to keep mefrom desolation. He--Alphonso ('tis years and years since I uttered thename save in my prayers) had gone to the war, telling me he would comeback and claim me for his bride. So I watched for him hour by hour, andtoiled and spun, and spun and toiled, that I might not go home to himempty-handed. But at last a lad from our parish, who had been a comradeof his, returned and told me all. _He_ was lying on the bloody field ofMarignano, with a French bullet in his heart. Senor, the sisters youread of could 'go to the grave and weep there.' And yet the Lord pitiedthem."
"He pities all who weep," said Carlos.
"All good Christians, he may. But though an old Christian, I was not agood one. For I thought it bitter hard that my candle should bequenched in a moment, like a wax taper when the procession is done. Andit came often into my mind how the Almighty, or Our Lady, or the Saints,could have helped me if they would. May they forgive me; it is hard tobe religious."
"I do not think so."
"I suppose it is not hard to learned gentlemen who have been at thecolleges. But how can simple men and women tell whether they arekeeping all the commandments of God and Holy Church? It well may bethat I had done something, or left something undone, whereby Our Ladywas displeased."
"It is not Our Lady, but our Lord himself, who holds the keys of helland of death," said Carlos, gaining at the moment a new truth for hisown heart. "None enter the gates of death, as none shall come forththrough them, save at his command. But go on, Dolores, and tell me howdid comfort come
to you?"
"Comfort never came to me, senor. But after a time there came a kind ofnumbness and hardness that helped me to live my life as if I cared forit. And your lady mother (God rest her soul!) showed me wondrouskindness in my sorrow. It was then she took me to be her own maiden.She had me taught many things, such as reading and various cunning kindsof embroidery, that I might serve her with them, she said; but I wellknew they were meant to turn my heart away from its own aching. I wentwith her to Seville. I could be glad for her, senor, that God had givenher the good thing he had denied to me. At last it came to be almostlike joy to me to see the great deep love there was between your fatherand her."
This was a degree of unselfishness beyond the comprehension of Carlosjust then. He felt his own wound throb painfully, and was not sorry toturn the conversation. "Did my parents reside long in Seville?" heasked.
"Not long, senor. Their life there was a gay one, as became their rankand wealth (for, as your worship knows, your father had a noble estatethen). But soon they both grew tired of the gay world. My lady everloved the free mountains, and my lord--I scarce can tell what changepassed over him. He lost his care for the tourney and the dance, andbetook himself instead to study. Both were glad to withdraw to thisquiet spot. Here your brother Don Juan was born; and for nigh a yearafter wards no lord and lady could have led a happier and, at the sametime, more pious and orderly life, than did your noble parents."
The thoughtful eye of Carlos turned to the inscription on the window,and kindled with a strange light. "Was not this room my father'sfavourite place of study?" he asked.
"It was, senor. Of course, the house was not then as it now is. Thoughsimple enough, after the Seville palace with its fountains and marblestatues, and doors grated with golden net work, it was still a seemlydwelling-place for a noble lord and lady. There was glass in all thewindows then, though through neglect and carelessness it has been broken(even your worship nay remember how Don Juan sent an arrow through aquarrel pane in the west window one day), so we thought it best toremove the traces."
"My parents led a pious life, you say?"
"Truly they did, senor. They were good and charitable to the poor; andthey spent much of their time reading holy books, as you do now. Ay demi! what was wrong with them I know not, save that perhaps they werescarce careful enough to give Holy Church all her dues. And I usedsometimes to wish that my lady would show more devotion to the blessedMother of God. But she _felt_ it all, no doubt; only it was not herway, nor my lord's either, to be for ever running about on pilgrimage oroffering wax candles, nor yet to keep the father confessor every instantwith his ear to their lips."
Carlos started, and turned an earnest inquiring gaze upon her. "Did mymother ever read to you as I have done?" he asked.
"She sometimes read me good words out of the Breviary, senor. All thingwent on thus, until one day when a letter came from the Emperor himself(as I believe), desiring your father to go to him, to Antwerp. Thematter was to be kept very private, but my lady used to tell meeverything. My lord thought he was to be sent on some secret missionwhere skill was needed, and perchance peril was to be met. For it waswell known that he loved such affairs, and was dexterous in themanagement of them. So he parted cheerily from my lady, she standing atthe gate yonder, and making little Don Juan kiss hands to him as he rodedown the path. Woe for the poor babe, that never saw his father's faceagain! And worse woe for the mother! But death heals all things,except sin.
"After three weeks or a month, more or less, two monks of St. Dominicrode to the gates one day. The younger stayed without in the hall withus; while the elder, a man of stern and stately presence, had privateaudience of my lady in this chamber where we sit now--a place of deathit has seemed to me ever since. For the audience had not lasted longuntil I heard a cry--such a cry!--it rings in nay ears even now. Ihastened to my lady. She had swooned--and long, long was it beforesense returned again. Do not keep looking at me, senor, with eyes solike hers, or I cannot tell you more."
"Did she speak? Did she reveal anything to you?"
"_Nothing_, senor. During the days that followed, only things withoutmeaning or connection, such as those in fever speak, or broken words ofprayer, were on her lips. Until the very last, and then she was wornand weak, and could but receive the rites of the Church, and whisper afew directions about the poor babes. She bade us give you the name youbear, since he had said that his next boy should be called for the greatEmperor. Then she prayed very earnestly, 'Lord, take him Thyself--takehim Thyself!' Doctor Marco, who was present, thought she meant the poorlittle new-born babe--supposing, and no wonder, that it would be bettertended in heaven by Our Lady and the angels, than here on earth. But Iknow it was not you she thought of."
"My poor mother--God rest her soul! Nay, I doubt not that now she restsin God," Carlos added, softly.
"And so the curse fell on your house, senor; and in such sorrow were youborn. Yet you grew up merry lads, you and Don Juan."
"Thanks to thy care and kindness, well-beloved and faithful nurse. But,Dolores, tell me truly--have you never heard anything further of, orfrom, my father?"
"From him, never. Of him, that I believed, _never_."
"And what do you believe?" Carlos asked, eagerly.
"I know nothing, senor. I have heard all that your worship has heard,and no more."
"Do you think it is true--what we have all been told--of his death inthe Indies?"
"I know nothing, senor," Dolores repeated, with the air of a persondetermined to _say_ nothing.
But Carlos would not allow her to escape thus. Both had gone too far toleave the subject without probing it to its depths. And both feltinstinctively that it was not likely again to be discussed between them.Laying his hand on her arm, and looking steadily in her face, heasked,--
"Dolores, are you sure my father is dead?"
Seemingly relieved by the form the question had taken, she met his gazewithout flinching, and answered in tones of evident sincerity, "Sure asthat I sit here--so help me God." After a long pause she added, as sherose to go, "Senor Don Carlos, be not offended if I counsel you thisonce, since I held you a babe in my arms, and you will find none thatloves you better--if a poor old woman may say so to a young and noblecaballero."
"Say all you think to me, my dear and kind nurse."
"Then, senor, I say, leave vain thoughts and questions about yourfather's fate. 'There are no birds in last year's nests;' and 'Waterthat has run by will turn no mill.' And I entreat of you to repeat thesame to your noble brother when you find opportunity. Look before you,senor, and not behind; and God's best blessings rest on you!"
Dolores turned to go, but turning back again, stood irresolute.
"What is it, Dolores?" Carlos asked; hoping, perhaps, for some furtherglimmer of light upon that dark past, from which she implored him toturn his thoughts.
"If it please you, Senor Don Carlos--" and she paused and hesitated.
"Can I do anything for you?" said Carlos, in a kind, encouraging tone.
"Ay, senor, that you can. With your learning and your good Book, surelyyou can tell me whether the soul of my poor Alphonso, dead on thebattle-field without shrift or sacrament, has yet found rest with God?"
Thus the tree woman's heart, though so full of sympathy for others,still turned back to its own sorrow, which lay deepest of all.
Carlos felt himself unexpectedly involved in a difficulty. "My booktells me nothing on the subject," he said, after some thought. "But Iam sure you may be comforted, after all these years, during which youhave diligently prayed, and sought the Church's prayers for him."
The long eager gaze of her wistful eyes asked mournfully, "Is this _all_you can tell me?" But her lips only said, "I thank your Excellency," asshe withdrew.
The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century Page 10