XLVI.
Is it too Late?
"Death upon his face Is rather shine than shade; A tender shine by looks beloved made: He seemeth dying in a quiet place."--E. B. Browning.
The mountain-snow lay white around the old castle of Nuera; but withinthere was light and warmth. Joy and gladness were there also,"thanksgiving and the voice of melody;" for Dona Beatrix, graver andpaler than of old, and with the brilliant lustre of her dark eyessubdued to a kind of dewy softness, was singing a cradle-song beside thecot where her first-born slept.
The babe had just been baptized by Fray Sebastian. With a pleading,wistful look had Dolores asked her lord, the day before, what name hewished his son to bear. But he only answered, "The heir of our housealways bears the name of Juan." Another name was far dearer to memory;but not yet could he accustom his lips to utter it, or his ear to bearthe sound.
Now he came slowly into the room, holding in his hand an unsealedletter. Dona Beatriz looked up. "He sleeps," she said.
"Then let him sleep on, senora mia."
"But will you not look? See, how pretty he is! How he smiles in hissleep! And those dear small hands--"
"Have their share in dragging me further than you wot of, my Beatriz."
"Nay; what dost thou mean? Do not be grave and sad to-day--not to-day,Don Juan."
"My beloved, God knows I would not cloud thy brow with a single care ifI could help it. Nor am I sad. Only we must think. Here is a letterfrom the Duke of Savoy (and very gracious and condescending too),inviting me to take my place once more in His Catholic Majesty's army."
"But you will not go? We are so happy together here."
"My Beatriz, I _dare_ not go. I would have to fight"--(here he brokeoff, and cast a hasty glance round the room, from the habit of dreadinglisteners)--"I would have to fight against those whose cause is just thecause I hold dearest upon earth, I would have to deny my faith by thedeeds of every day. But yet, how to refuse and not stand dishonoured inthe eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I know not."
"No dishonour could ever touch thee, my brave and noble Juan."
Don Juan's brow relaxed a little. "But that men should even _think_ itdid, is what I could not bear," he said. "Besides"--and he drew nearerthe cradle, and looked fondly down at the little sleeper--"it does notseem to me, my Beatriz, that I dare bring up this child God has given meto the bitter heritage of a slave."
"A slave!" repeated Dona Beatriz, almost with a cry. "Now Heaven helpus, Don Juan; are you mad? You, of noblest lineage--you, Alvarez deMenaya--to call your own first-born a slave!"
"I call any one a slave who dares not speak out what he thinks, and actout what he believes," returned Don Juan sadly.
"And what is it that you would do then?"
"Would to God that I knew! But the future is all dark to me. I see nota single step before me."
"Then, amigo mio, do not look before you. Let the future alone, andenjoy the present, as I do."
"Truly that baby face would charm many a care away," said Juan, withanother fond glance at the sleeping child. "But a man _must_ lookbefore him, and a Christian man must ask what God would have him to do.Moreover, this letter of the duke demands an answer, Yea or Nay."
"Senor Don Juan, I desire to speak with your Excellency," said the voiceof Dolores at the door.
"Come in, Dolores."
"Nay, senor, I want you here." This peremptory sharpness was veryunlike the wonted manner of Dolores.
Don Juan came forth immediately. Dolores signed to him to shut thedoor. Then, not till then, she began,--"Senor Don Juan, two brethren ofthe Society of Jesus have come from Seville, and are now in thevillage."
"What then? Surely you do not fear that they suspect anything withregard to us?" asked Juan, in some alarm.
"No; but they have brought tidings."
"You tremble, Dolores. You are ill. Speak--what is it?"
"They have brought tidings of a great Act of Faith, to be held atSeville, upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city, but towardsthe end of this month."
For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other's faces. ThenDolores said, in an eager breathless whisper, "You will go, senor?"
Juan shook his head. "What you are thinking of, Dolores, is a dream--avain, wild dream. Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God."
"But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us," said Dolores,large tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
"It is true," Juan mused; "they may wreak their vengeance on the dust."
"And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them,I, a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Seville andback again."
Juan hesitated no longer. "_I go_," he said. "Dolores, seek FraySebastian, and send him to me at once. Bid Jorge be ready with thehorses to start to-morrow at daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare DonaBeatriz for my sudden departure."
Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard tospeak. No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightestimpression on his mind, or even to have been remembered by him.
But at last he drew near Seville. It was late in the evening, however,and he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a villageeight or nine miles from their destination.
Suddenly Jorge cried out. "Look there, senor, the city is on fire."
Don Juan looked. A lurid crimson glow paled the stars in the southernsky. With a shudder he bowed his head, and veiled his face from theawful sight.
"That fire is _without the gate_," he said at last. "Pray for the soulsthat are passing in anguish now."
Noble, heroic souls! Probably Juliano Hernandez, possibly FrayConstantino, was amongst them. These were the only names that occurredto Don Juan's mind, or were breathed in his fervent, agitated prayer.
"Yonder is the posada, senor," said the attendant presently.
"Nay, Jorge, we will ride on. There will be no sleepers in Sevilleto-night."
"But, senor," remonstrated the servant, "the horses are weary. We havetravelled far to-day already."
"Let them rest afterwards," said Juan briefly. Motion, just then, wasan absolute necessity to him. He could not have rested anywhere, withinsight of that awful glare.
Two hours afterwards he drew the rein of his weary steed before thehouse of his cousin Dona Inez. He had no scruple in asking foradmission in the middle of the night, as he knew that, under thecircumstances, the household would not fail to be astir. His summonswas speedily answered, and he was conducted to a hall opening on thepatio.
Thither, after a brief interval, came Juanita, bearing a lamp in herhand, which she set down on the table. "My lady will see yourExcellency presently," said the girl, with a shy, frightened air, whichwas very unlike her, but which Juan was too preoccupied to notice. "Butshe is much indisposed. My lord was obliged to accompany her home fromthe Act of Faith before it was half over."
Juan expressed the concern he felt, and desired that she would notincommode herself upon his account. Perhaps Don Garcia, if he had notyet retired to rest, would converse with him for a few moments.
"My lady said she must speak with you herself," answered Juanita, as sheleft the room.
After a considerable time Dona Inez appeared. In that southern climateyouth and beauty fade quickly; and yet Juan was by no means prepared forthe changed, worn, haggard face that gazed on him now. There was nopomp of apparel to carry off the impression. Dona Inez wore a loosedark dressing-robe; and a hasty careless hand seemed to have untwinedthe usual ornaments from her black hair. Her eyes were like those ofone who has wept for hours, and then only ceased for very weariness.
She stretched out both her hands to Juan--"O Don Juan, I never meant it!I never meant it!"
"Senora and my cousin, I have but just arrived here. I do notunderstand you," said Juan, rising to greet her.
"Santa Mar
ia! Then you know not!--Horrible!"
She sank into a seat Juan stood gazing at her eagerly, almost wildly."Yes; I understand all now," he said at last. "I suspected it."
_He_ saw in imagination a black chest, with a little lifeless dustwithin it; a rude shapeless figure, robed in the hideous zamarra, andbearing in large letters the venerated name, "Alvarez de Santillanos yMenaya." While she saw a living face, that would never cease to haunther memory until death shadowed all things.
"Let me speak," she gasped; "and I will try to be calm. I did not wishto go. It was the day of the last Auto, you remember, that my poorbrother died, and altogether---- But Don Garcia insisted. He saideverybody would talk, and especially when the taint had touched our ownhouse. Besides, Dona Juana de Bohorques, who died in prison, was to bepublicly declared innocent, and her property restored to her heirs. Outof regard to the family, it was thought we ought to be present. O DonJuan, if I had but known! I would rather have put on a sanbenito myselfthan have gone there. God grant it did not hurt him!"
"How could it possibly hurt him, my tender-hearted cousin?"
"Hush! Let me go on now, while I can speak of it; or I shall never,never tell you. And I must. _He_ would have wished---- Well, we wereseated in what they called good places; very near the condemned; infact, the scaffold opposite was plain to us as you are to me now. Butthat last time, and Dona Maria's look, and Dr. Cristobal's, haunted me,so that I did not dare to raise my eyes to where _they_ sat;--not untillong after the mass had begun. And I knew besides there were so manywomen there--eight on that dreadful top bench, doomed to die. But atlast a lady who sat near me bade me look at one of the relaxed, a littleman, who was pointing upwards and making signs to his companions toencourage them. 'Do not look, senora,' said Don Garcia, quickly--buttoo late. O Don Juan, I saw his face!"
"His LIVING face? Not his living face?" cried Juan, with a shudder thatconvulsed his strong frame from head to foot And the Name--the one awfulName that rises to all human lips in moments of supreme emotion--brokefrom his in a wail of anguish.
Dona Inez tried to speak; but in vain. Thoroughly broken down, she weptand sobbed aloud. But the sight of the rigid, tearless face before herchecked her tears at last. She gained power to go on. "I saw him.Worn and pale, of course; yet not changed so greatly, after all. Thesame dear, kind, familiar face I had seen last in this room, when hecaressed and played with my child. Not sad, not as though he suffered.Rather as though he had suffered long ago; but was beyond it all, eventhen. A still, patient, fearless look, eyes that saw everything; andyet nothing seemed to trouble him. I bore it until they were readingthe sentences, and came to his. But when I saw the Alguazil strikehim--the blow that relaxed to the secular arm--I could endure no more.I believe I cried aloud. But in fact I know not what I did. I knownothing more till Don Garcia and my brother Don Manuel were carrying methrough the crowd."
"No word! Was there no word spoken?" asked Juan wildly.
"_No_; but I heard some one near me say that he talked with thatmuleteer in the court of the Triana, and spoke words of comfort to apoor woman amongst the penitents, whom they called Maria Gonsalez."
All was told now. Maddened with rage and anguish, Juan rushed from theroom, from the house; and, without being conscious of any settledpurpose, in five minutes found himself far on his way to the Dominicanconvent adjoining the Triana.
His servant, who was still waiting at the gate, followed him to ask fororders, and with difficulty overtook him, and arrested his steps.
Juan sternly silenced his faltering, agitated question as to what waswrong with his lord. "Go to rest," he said, "and meet me in the morningby the great gate of San Isodro." Nothing was clear to him; but that hemust shake off as soon as possible the dust of the wicked, cruel cityfrom his feet. And San Isodro was the only trysting-place without itswalls that happened at the moment to occur to his bewildered brain.
The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century Page 46