XLIII.
El Dorado Found Again.
"And every power was used, and every art, To bend to falsehood one determined heart, Assailed, in patience it received the shock, Soft as the wave, unbroken as the rock."--Crabbe
"What are you doing, my father?" Carlos asked one morning.
Don Juan had produced from some private receptacle a small ink-horn, andwas moistening its long-dried contents with water.
"I was thinking that I should like to write down somewhat," he said.
"But whereto will ink serve us without pen and paper?"
The penitent smiled; and presently pulled out from within his pallet alittle faded writing-book, and a pen that looked--what it was--more thantwenty years old.
"Long ago," he said, "I used to be weary, weary of sitting idle all theday; so I bribed one of the lay brothers with my last ducat to bring methis, only that I might set down therein whatever happened, forpastime."
"May I read it, my father?"
"And welcome, if thou wilt;" and he gave the book into the hand of hisson. "At first, as you see, there be many things written therein. Icannot tell what they are now; I have forgotten them all;--but I supposeI thought them, or felt them--once. Or sometimes the brethren wouldcome to visit me, and talk, and afterwards I would write what they said.But by degrees I set down less and less in it. Many days passed inwhich I wrote nothing, because nothing was to write. Nothing everhappened."
Carlos was soon absorbed in the perusal of the little book. The recordsof his father's earlier prison life he scanned with great interest andwith deep emotion; but coming rather suddenly upon the last entry, hecould not forbear a smile. He read aloud:
"'A feast day. Had a capon for dinner, and a measure of red wine.'"
"Did I not judge well," asked the father, "that it was time to give overwriting, when I could stoop low enough to record such trifles? Yes; Ithink I can recall the bitterness of heart with which I laid the bookaside. I despised myself for what I wrote therein; and yet I hadnothing else to write--would never have anything else, I thought. Butnow God has given me my son. I will write that down."
Looking up, after a little while, from his self-imposed task, he asked,with an air of perplexity,--
"But when was it? How long is it since you came here, Carlos?"
Carlos in his turn was perplexed. The quiet days had glided on swiftlyand noiselessly, leaving no trace behind.
"To me it seems to have been all one long Sabbath," he said. "But letme think. The summer heats had not come; I suppose it must have beenMarch or April--April, perhaps. I remember thinking I had been just twoyears in prison."
"And now it is growing cool again. I suppose it may have been fourmonths--six months ago. What think you?"
Carlos thought it nearer the latter period than the former.
"I believe we have been visited six times by the brethren," he said."No; only five times."
These visits of inspection had been made by command of theprior--himself absent from Seville on important business during most ofthe time--and the result had been duly reported to him. The monks towhom the duty had been deputed were aged and respectable members of thecommunity; in fact, the only persons in the monastery who wereacquainted with Don Juan's real name and history. It was their opinionthat matters were progressing favourably with the prisoners. They foundthe penitent as usual--docile, obedient, submissive, only more inclinedto converse than formerly; and they thought the young man very gentleand courteous, grateful for the smallest kindness, and ready to listenattentively, and with apparent interest, to everything that was said.
For more definite results the prior was content to wait: he had greatfaith in waiting. Still, even to him six months seemed long enough forthe experiment he was trying. At the end of that time--which happenedto be the day after the conversation just related--he himself made avisit to the prisoners.
Both most warmly expressed their gratitude for the singular grace he hadshown them. Carlos, whose health had greatly improved, said that he hadnot dreamed so much earthly happiness could remain for him still.
"Then, my son," said the prior, "give evidence of thy gratitude in theonly way possible to thee, or acceptable to me. Do not reject the mercystill offered thee by Holy Church. Ask for reconciliation."
"My lord," replied Carlos, firmly, "I can but repeat what I told you sixmonths agone--that is impossible."
The prior argued, expostulated, threatened--in vain. At length hereminded Carlos that he was already condemned to death--the death offire; and that he was now putting from him his last chance of mercy.But when he still remained steadfast, he turned away from him with anair of deep disappointment, though more in sorrow than in anger, as onepained by keen and unexpected ingratitude.
"I speak to thee no more," he said. "I believe there is in thy father'sheart some little spark, not only of natural feeling but of the grace ofGod. I address myself to him."
Whether Don Juan had never fully comprehended the statement of Carlosthat he was under sentence of death, or whether the tide of emotioncaused by finding in him his own son had swept the terrible fact fromhis remembrance, it is impossible to say; but it certainly came to him,from the lips of the prior, as a dreadful, unexpected blow. So keen washis anguish that Fray Ricardo himself was moved; and the rather, becauseit was impossible to the aged and broken man to maintain the outwardself-restraint a younger and stronger person might have done.
More touched, at the moment, by his father's condition than by all thehorrors that menaced himself, Carlos came to his side, and gently triedto soothe him.
"Cease!" said the prior, sternly. "It is but mockery to pretendsympathy with the sorrow thine own obstinacy has caused. If in truththou lovest him, save him this cruel pain. For three days still," headded, "the door of grace shall stand open to thee. After that term hasexpired, I dare not promise thy life." Then turning to the agitatedfather--"If _you_ can make this unhappy youth hear the voice of divineand human compassion," he said, "you will save both his body and hissoul alive. You know how to send me a message. God comfort you, andincline his heart to repentance." And with these words he departed,leaving Carlos to undergo the sharpest trial that had come upon himsince his imprisonment.
All that day, and the greater part of the night that followed it, thetwo wills strove together. Prayers, tears, entreaties, seemed to theagonized father to fall on the strong heart of his son like drops ofrain on the rock. He did not know that all the time they were fallingon that heart like sparks of living fire; for Carlos, once so weak, hadlearned now to endure pain, both of mind and body, with brow and lipthat "gave no sign." Passing tender was the love that had sprung upbetween those two, so strangely brought together. And now Carlos, byhis own act, must sever that sweet bond--must leave his newly-foundfather in a solitude doubly terrible, where the feeble lamp of his lifewould soon go out in obscure darkness. Was not this bitterness enough,without the anguish of seeing that father bow his white head before him,and teach his aged lips words of broken, passionate entreaty that hisson--his one earthly treasure--would not forsake him thus?
"My father," Carlos said at last, as they sat together in the moonlight,for their light had gone out unheeded--"my father, you have often toldme that my face is like my mother's."
"Ay de mi!" moaned the penitent--"and truly it is. Is that why it mustleave me as hers did? Ay de mi, Costanza mia! Ay de mi, my son!"
"Father, tell me, I pray you, to escape what anguish of mind or bodywould you set your seal to a falsehood told to her dishonour?"
"Boy, how can you ask? Never!--nothing could force me to that." Andfrom the faded eye there shot a gleam almost like the fire of old days.
"Father, there is One I love better than ever you loved her. Not tosave myself, not even to save you, from this bitter pain, can I deny himor dishonour his name. Father, I cannot!--Though this is worse than thetorture," he
added.
The anguish of the last words pierced to the very core of the old man'sheart. He said no more; but he covered his face, and wept long andpassionately, as a man weeps whose heart is broken, and who has nolonger any power left him to struggle against his doom.
Their last meal lay untasted. Some wine had formed part of it; and thisCarlos now brought, and, with a few gentle, loving words, offered to hisfather. Don Juan put it aside, but drew his son closer, and looked athim in the moonlight long and earnestly.
"How can I give thee up?" he murmured.
As Carlos tried to return his gaze, it flashed for the first time acrosshis mind that his father was changed. He looked older, feebler, morewan than he had done at his coming. Was the newly-awakened spiritwearing out the body? He said,--
"It may be, my father, that God will not call you to the trial. Perhapsmonths may elapse before they arrange another Auto."
How calmly he could speak of it;--for he had forgotten himself. Courage,with him, always had its root in self-forgetting love.
Don Juan caught at the gleam of hope, though not exactly as Carlosintended. "Ay, truly," he said, "many things may happen before then."
"And nothing _can_ happen save at the will of Him who loves and caresfor us. Let us trust him, my beloved father. He will not allow us tobe tempted above that we are able to bear. For he is good--oh, howgood!--to the soul that seeketh him. Long ago I believed that; but sincehe has honoured me to suffer for him, once and again have I proved ittrue, true as life or death. Father, I once thought the strongest thingon earth--that which reached deepest into our nature--was pain. But Ihave lived to learn that his love is stronger, his peace is deeper, thanall pain."
With many such words--words of faith, and hope, and tenderness--did hesoothe his weary, broken-hearted father. And at last, though not tilltowards morning, he succeeded in inducing him to lie down and seek therest he so sorely needed.
Then came his own hour; the hour of bitter, lonely conflict. He hadgrown accustomed to the thought, to the _expectation_, of a silent,peaceful death within the prison walls. He had hoped, nay, certainlybelieved, that in the slow hours of some quiet day or night,undistinguished from other days and nights, God's messenger would stealnoiselessly to his gloomy cell, and heart and brain would thrill withrapture at the summons, "The Master calleth thee."
Now, indeed, it was true that the Master called him. But he called himto go to Him through the scornful gaze of ten thousand eyes; throughreproach, and shame, and mockery; the hideous zamarra and carroza; thelong agony of the Auto, spun out from daybreak till midnight; and, lastof all, through the torture of the doom of fire. How could he bear it?Sharp were the pangs of fear that wrung his heart, and dread was thestruggle that followed.
It was over at last. Raising to the cold moonlight a steadfast thoughsorrowful face, Carlos murmured audibly, "What time I am afraid I willput my trust in thee. Lord, I am ready to go with thee, whithersoeverthou wilt; only--with thee."
He woke, late the following morning, from the sleep of exhaustion to thepainful consciousness of something terrible to come upon him. But hewas soon roused from thoughts of self by seeing his father kneel beforethe crucifix, not quietly reciting his appointed penance, but utteringbroken words of prayer and lamentation, accompanied by bitter weeping.As far as he could gather, the burden of the cry was this, "God help me!God forgive me! _I have lost it_!" Over and over again did he moanthose piteous words, "I have lost it!" as if they were the burden ofsome dreary song. They seemed to contain the sum of all his sorrow.
Carlos, yearning to comfort him, still did not feel that he couldinterrupt him then. He waited quietly until they were both ready fortheir usual reading or repetition of Scripture; for Carlos, everymorning, either read from the Book of Hours to his father, or recitedpassages from memory, as suited his inclination at the time.
He knew all the Gospel of John by heart. And this day he began withthose blessed words, dear in all ages to the tried and sorrowing, "Letnot your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in me. Inmy Father's house are many mansions: if it were not so, I would havetold you. I go to prepare a place for you." He continued without pauseto the close of the sixteenth chapter, "These things I have spoken untoyou, that in me ye might have peace. In the world ye shall havetribulation: but be of good cheer; I have overcome the world."
Then once more Don Juan uttered that cry of bitter pain, "Ay de mi! Ihave lost it!"
Carlos thought he understood him now. "Lost that peace, my father?" hequestioned gently.
The old man bowed his head sorrowfully.
"But it is in Him. 'In me ye might have peace.' And Him you have,"said Carlos.
Don Juan drew his hand across his brow, was silent for a few moments,then said slowly, "I will try to tell you how it is with me. There isone thing I could do, even yet; one path left open to my footsteps inwhich none could part us.--What hinders my refusing to perform mypenance, and boldly taking my stand beside thee, Carlos?"
Carlos started, flushed, grew pale again with emotion. He had notdreamed of this, and his heart shrank from it in terror. "My belovedfather!" he exclaimed in a trembling voice. "But no--God has not calledyou. Each one of us must wait to see his guiding hand."
"Once I could have done it bravely, nay, joyfully," said the penitent."_Not now_." And there was a silence.
At last Don Juan resumed, "My boy, thy courage shames my weakness. Whathast thou seen, what dost thou see, that makes this thing possible tothee?"
"My father knows. I see Him who died for me, who rose again for me, wholives at the right hand of God to intercede for me."
"_For me?_"
"Yes; it is this thought that gives strength and peace."
"Peace--which I have lost for ever."
"Not for ever, my honoured father. No; you are his, and of such it iswritten, 'Neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand.' Though yourtired hand has relaxed its grasp of him, his has never ceased to holdyou, and never can cease."
"I was at peace and happy long ago, when I believed, as Don Rodrigosaid, that I was justified by faith in him."
"Once justified, justified for ever," said Carlos.
"Don Rodrigo used to say so too, but--I cannot understand it now," and alook of perplexity passed over his face.
Carlos spoke more simply. "No! Then come to him now, my father, justas if you had never come before. You may not know that you arejustified; you know well that you are weary and heavy laden. And tosuch he says, 'Come.' He says it with outstretched arms, with a heartfull of love and tenderness. He is as willing to save you from sin andsorrow as you are this hour to save me from pain and death. Only, youcannot, and he can."
"Come--that is--believe?"
"It is believe, and more. Come, as your heart came out to me, and mineto you, when we knew the great bond between us. But with far strongertrust and deeper love; for he is more than son or father. He fulfilsall relationships, satisfies all wants."
"But then, what of those long years in which I forgot him!"
"They were but adding to the sum of sin; sin that he has pardoned, haswashed away for ever in his blood."
At that point the conversation dropped, and days passed ere it wasrenewed. Don Juan was unusually silent; very tender to his son, makingno complaint, but often weeping quietly. Carlos thought it best to leaveGod to deal with him directly, so he only prayed for him and with him,repeated precious Scripture words, and sometimes sang to him the psalmsand hymns of the Church.
But one evening, to the affectionate "Good-night" always exchanged bythe son and father with the sense that many more might not be left tothem, Don Juan added, "Rejoice with me, my son; for I think that I havefound again the thing that I lost--
'El Dorado Yo he trovada.'"
The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century Page 43