XXVIII.
Reaping the Whirlwind
"All is lost, except a little life."--Byron
Nearly a fortnight passed away before a tiny lace kerchief, flutteringat nightfall through the jealous grating of one of the few windows ofDon Manuel's house that looked towards the street, told Juan that he wasat liberty to seek admission the next day. He was permitted to enter;but he explored the patio and all the adjacent corridors and roomswithout seeing the face of which he was in search. He did not, indeed,meet any one, not even a domestic; for it was the eve of the Feast ofthe Ascension, and nearly all the household had gone to see the greattabernacle carried in state to the Cathedral and set up there, inpreparation for the solemnities of the following day.
He thought this a good opportunity for satisfying his longing to visitthe apartment his brother had been wont to occupy. In spite of what hisuncle had said to the contrary, and indeed of the dictates of his ownreason, he could not relinquish the hope that something which belongedto him--perhaps even some word or line traced by his hand--might rewardhis careful search.
He ascended the stairs; not stealthily, or as if ashamed of his errand,for no one had the right to forbid him. He reached the turret withoutmeeting any one, but had hardly placed his foot upon the stair that ledto its upper apartment, when a voice called out, not very loudly,--
"Chien va?"
It was Gonsalvo's. Juan answered,--
"It is I--Don Juan."
"Come to me, for Heaven's sake!"
A private interview with a madman is not generally thought particularlydesirable. But Juan was a stranger to fear. He entered the roomimmediately, and was horror-stricken at the change in his cousin'sappearance. A tangled mass of black hair mingled with his beard, andfell neglected over the pillow; while large, wild, melancholy eyes litup the pallor of his wasted face. He lay, or rather reclined, on acouch, half covered by an embroidered quilt, but wearing a loosedoublet, very carelessly thrown on.
Of late the cousins had been far from friendly. Still Juan fromcompassion stretched out his hand. But Gonsalvo would not touch it.
"Did you know all," he said, "you would stab me where I lie, and thusmake an end at once of the most miserable life under God's heaven."
"I fear you are very ill, my cousin," said Juan, kindly; for he thoughtGonsalvo's words the offspring of his wandering fancy.
"From the waist downwards I am dead. It is God's hand: and he is just."
"Does your physician give hope of your recovery from this seizure?"
With something like his old short, bitter laugh, Gonsalvo answered--"Ihave no physician."
"This must be one of his delusions," thought Juan; "or else, since hecannot have Losada, he has refused, with his usual obstinacy, to see anyone else."
He said aloud,--"That is not right, cousin Don Gonsalvo. You ought notto neglect lawful means of cure. Senor Sylvester Areto is a veryskilful physician; you might safely place yourself in his hands."
"Only there is one slight objection--my father and my brothers would notpermit me to see him."
Juan was in no doubt how to regard this statement; but hoping to extractfrom him some additional information respecting his brother, he turnedthe conversation.
"When did this malady seize you?" he asked.
"Close the door gently, and I will tell you all. And oh! tread softly,lest my mother, who lies asleep in the room beneath, worn out withwatching, should wake and separate us. Then must I bear my guilt and myanguish unconfessed to the grave."
Juan obeyed, and took a seat beside his cousin's couch.
"Sit where I can see your face," said Gonsalvo; "I will not shrink evenfrom _that_. Don Juan, I am your brother's murderer."
Juan started, and his colour changed rapidly.
"If I did not think you were mad--"
"I am no more mad than you are," Gonsalvo interrupted. "I _was_ mad,indeed; but that horrible night, when God smote my body, I regained myreason. I see all things clearly now--too late."
"Am I to understand, then," said Juan, rising from his seat, andspeaking in measured tones, though his eye was like a tiger's--"am I tounderstand that you--_you_--denounced my brother? If so, thank God thatyou are lying helpless there."
"I am not quite so vile a thing as that. I did not intend to harm ahair of his head; but I detained him here to his ruin. He had the meansof escape provided, and but for me would have been in safety ere theAlguazils came."
"Well for both of us your guilt was not greater. Still, you cannotexpect me--just yet--to forgive you."
"I expect no forgiveness from man," said Gonsalvo, who perhaps disdainedto plead in his own exculpation the generous words of Carlos.
Juan had by this time changed his tone towards his cousin, and assumedhis perfect sanity; though, engrossed by the thought of his brother, hewas quite unconscious of the mental process by which he had arrived atthis conclusion. He asked,--
"But why did you detain him? How did you come to know at all of hisintended flight?"
"He had a safe asylum provided for him by some friend--I know not whom,"said Gonsalvo, in reply. "He was going forth at midnight to seek it.At the same hour I also"--(for a moment he hesitated, but quickly wenton)--"was going forth--to plunge a dagger in my enemy's heart. We metface to face; and each confided his errand to the other. He sought, byargument and entreaty, to move me from a purpose which seemed to him agreat crime. But ere our debate was ended, God laid his hand injudgment upon me; and whilst Don Carlos lingered, speaking words ofcomfort--brave and kind, though vain--the Alguazils came, and he wastaken."
Juan listened in gloomy silence.
"Did he leave no message, not one word, for me?" he asked at last, in alow voice.
"Yes; one word. Filled with wonder at the calmness with which he methis terrible fate, I cried out, as they led him from the room, 'Vaya conDios, Don Carlos, a braver man than you have I never seen!' With onelong mournful look, that haunts me still, he said, '_Tell Ruy!_'"
Strong man as he was, Don Juan Alvarez bowed his head and wept. Theywere the first tears the great sorrow had wrung from him--almost thefirst that he ever remembered shedding. Gonsalvo saw no shame in them.
"Weep on," he said--"weep on; and thank God that thy tears are forsorrow only, not for remorse."
Hoarse and heavy sobs shook the strong frame. For some time they werethe only sounds that broke the stillness. At length Gonsalvo said,slowly,--
"He gave me something to keep, which in right should belong to thee."
Juan looked up. Gonsalvo half raised himself, and drew a cushion frombeneath his head. First he took off its outer cover of fine holland;then he inserted his hand into an opening that seemed like an accidentalrip, and, not without some trouble, drew out a small volume. Juanseized it eagerly: well did he know his brother's Spanish Testament.
"Take it," said Gonsalvo; "but remember it is a dangerous treasure."
"Perhaps you are not sorry to part with it?"
"I deserve that you should say so," answered Gonsalvo, with unwontedgentleness. "But the truth is," he added, with a wan, sickly smile,"nothing can part me from it now, for I have learned almost every wordof it by heart."
"How could you, in so short a time, accomplish such a task?" asked Juan,in surprise.
"Easily enough. I was alone long hours of the day, when I could read;and in the silent, sleepless nights I could recall and repeat what Iread during the day. But for that I should be in truth what they callme--mad."
"Then you love its words?"
"I _fear_ them," cried Gonsalvo, with strange energy, flinging out hiswasted arm over the counterpane. "They are words of life--words offire. They are, to the Church's words, the priest's threatenings, thepriest's pardons, what your limbs, throbbing with healthy vigorous life,are to mine--cold, dead, impotent; or what the living champion--steelfrom head to heel, the Toledo blade in his strong right hand--is to th
epainted San Cristofro on the Cathedral door. Because I dare to say somuch, my father pretends to think me mad; lest, wrecked as I am in mindand body, I should still find one terrible consolation,--that offlinging the truth for once in the face of the scribes and Pharisees,and then suffering for it--like Don Carlos."
He was silent from exhaustion, and lay with closed eyes and deathlikecountenance. After a long pause, he resumed, in a low, weak voice,--
"Some words are good--perhaps. There was San Pablo, who was ablasphemer, and injurious."
"Don Gonsalvo, my brother once said he would give his right hand thatyou shared his faith."
"Oh, did he?" A quick flush overspread the wan face. "But hark! a stepon the stairs! My mother's."
"I am neither afraid nor ashamed to be found here," said Don Juan.
"My poor mother! She has shown me more tenderness of late than Ideserved at her hands. Do not let us involve her in trouble."
Juan greeted his aunt with due courtesy, and even attempted some wordsof condolence upon his cousin's illness. But he saw that the poor ladywas terribly disconcerted, and indeed frightened, by his presence there.And not without cause, since mischief, even to bloodshed, might havefollowed had Don Manuel or either of his sons found Juan incommunication with Gonsalvo. She conjured him to go, adding, by way ofinducement,--
"Dona Beatriz is taking the air in the garden."
"Availing myself of your gracious permission, senora my aunt, I shalloffer her my homage there; and so I kiss your feet--Adios, DonGonsalvo."
"Adios, my cousin."
Dona Katarina followed him out of the room.
"He is not sane," she whispered anxiously, laying her hand on his arm;"he is out of his mind. You perceive it clearly, Don Juan?"
"Certainly I shall not dispute it, senora," Juan answered, prudently.
The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century Page 28