THE VILLA DE MACIERA.
"Innocence makes him careless now.
* * * *
Youth hath its whimsies, nor are we
To examine all their paths too strictly:
We went awry ourselves when we were young."
_Old Tragedy._
Donna Isidora had now divested herself of the large and loose woollen
weed in which she had travelled yesterday, and threw it gracefully
over her arm. In her short but amply flounced skirt she tripped--as
we are writing of a Spanish girl we should have it glided--along by
the side of Quentin, who moderated his pace to suit hers.
The rain of last night had completely laid the dust; the morning air
was cool and delightful, and save a Franciscan friar of Medellin,
travelling like themselves on foot, with a canvas wallet slung on his
back and a long knotted staff in his hand, they met no one.
The heavy clouds were banking up from the westward, but the sky was
beautiful overhead, and, refreshed by the torrents of last night,
every herb, flower, and leaf wore their brightest hues. The Salor, a
river which flows from the mountains southward of Caceres, in
Estremadura, and joins the Tagus near Rosmaninhal, in the province of
Beira, and the bed of which frequently becomes quite dry in summer,
now came in sight, swollen by the recent rains, and flowing red and
muddy between groves of olive trees, which were still in full leaf,
as in those regions the olive harvest usually occurs about the month
of December.
On the surface of the rushing river the large flowers of the white
and purple lotus floated, or sunk to rise again, bobbing in the
eddies; and some brightly feathered birds, though summer was long
since past, twittered about, filling the air with melody and song.
But the western clouds, we have said, came gathering fast and
heavily, and in sombre masses that alternated between purple and inky
grey, while the wind rose in hot or cold puffs that gradually grew to
gusts; and these, with other indications that rough weather was again
at hand, made the two pedestrians hasten on.
Ere they crossed the old Roman bridge that spans the Salor, by arches
that must whilom have echoed to the marching legions of Quintus
Sertorius, the sound of distant thunder was heard among the
mountains, and then the clouds gathered so fast, that ere long every
vestige of blue was completely hidden in the sky.
"If rain comes, what a situation for you, Donna Isidora!" said
Quentin, turning to his companion, to whose usually colourless cheek,
the early morning air and the exercise of walking had imparted a
lovely flush; in fact she seemed radiantly beautiful!
"Oh, fear not for me, senor, though to have one's only dress wetted,
is rather unpleasant," she replied; "besides, the villa of the Conde
is close at hand."
At that moment one or two large drops of warm rain plashed on the
road they traversed, causing them to quicken their steps.
Striking off from the main highway, Isidora led Quentin between two
gate pillars, each of which was surmounted by a marble lion, seated
on its haunches, with its fore paws resting on a shield. This gave
access to an avenue, where two rows of giant beeches, now brown and
yellow, mingled with ilex (whose leaves seem red as blood when viewed
in the sunshine), cast their shadows on two lesser rows of dense and
dark-leaved Portuguese laurels, myrtle and wild gentian; but in this
silent and untrodden avenue, the rank grass and weeds were already
sprouting.
"This is the villa," said Donna Isidora, as they came suddenly in
sight of a chateau of very imposing aspect; "but Madre Maria! what is
this? It seems quite deserted!"
A double flight of white marble steps led from a green lawn to a
noble terrace, the balustrades of which were elaborately carved, and
had at regular intervals square pedestals bearing each an enormous
porphyry vase filled with flowers that diffused a delicious aroma.
From the architecture of the villa, a large square mansion with
wings, which rose from the plateau of this stately terrace, and by
its Palladian style, many of the pediments, cornices, capitals, and
especially the statues that adorned it, seemed to have been taken
from the various Roman ruins in the vicinity.
Around this terrace was a row of orange trees, the fruit of which had
never been gathered, as it lay in heaps under each, just as it had
fallen from the branches when dead ripe.
The plashing water of a beautiful bronze fountain, where four Tritons
shot each a jet of pure crystal from a trumpet-shaped conch into a
yellow marble basin, alone broke the silence and stillness of the
place. Torn from its elaborate hinges, the front door lay flat on
the tesselated marble floor of the vestibule, having evidently been
beaten in by the simple application of a large stone which still lay
above it; and the tendrils of the gorgeous acacias that covered the
front wall of the villa, had already begun to find their way in at
the open door, and to creep through the shattered windows.
"The French have been here!" said Isidora, with a dark expression in
her eyes; "De Ribeaupierre's dragoons have done this."
"The villa is quite deserted, senora," said Quentin, as they stood in
irresolution and perplexity on the terrace. "How far are we from
Salorino?"
"Six miles at least."
Quentin hallooed loudly two or three times, but the echoes of the
tenantless abode alone responded, and the deathlike stillness there
made Isidora shrink close to his side.
"I was not prepared for this," she said, while her eyes filled with
tears; "yet what else can we expect while a Frenchman remains alive
on this side of the Pyrenees?" she added, bitterly.
"There seems to be no living thing here, senora; not even a household
dog."
"What shall we do, senor?" she asked, earnestly.
"Whatever we do ultimately, senora, we must take shelter now, for
here comes the storm again, and with vengeance, too!"
So intent had they been in observing the indications of desertion and
decay about this noble villa, that they had failed to see how fast
the storm had gathered round them. A gust of wind tore past the
edifice, strewing the terrace with withered acacia flowers and orange
leaves, and then the rain descended in torrents, driving the
travellers for shelter into the open vestibule.
In blinding sheets it rushed along the earth, from which it seemed to
rise again like smoke or mist, then the thunder hurtled across the
darkening sky, and the yellow lightning played like wild-fire about
the bare granite scalps of the distant sierras, throwing forward
every peak in strong outline from the dusky masses of cloud, amid
which they "were an instant seen, and instant lost."
"_Madre de Dios!_ there seems a fatality in all this!" exclaimed
Isidora, as the overstrained and half Moorish ideas of etiquette and
female propriety which prevail in Spain and Portugal occurred to her;
then, looking at Quentin, while a blush suffused her cheek, she
added, "to be wandering in this manner is a most awkward situation,
especially for me."
Quentin made some well-bred reply, he knew not what; but with all its
awkwardness he felt that "the situation had its charm," as he took
her hand and suggested that they should investigate the premises and
see whether the villa was really so deserted as it appeared.
From the splendid vestibule, the lofty walls and rich cornices of
which were covered with armorial bearings of the past Condes de
Maciera, many of their escutcheons being collared by the orders of
Santiago de Compostella, Santiago de Montesa, the Dove of Castile,
and the Golden Fleece, with the crossed batons that showed how many
had of old commanded the Monteros de Espinosa, or Ancient Archers of
the Spanish Royal Guard, Quentin and Donna Isidora ascended a marble
stair to a large corridor, off which several suites of apartments
opened, and through these they proceeded, every moment fearful of
coming suddenly upon some sight of horror, as the French were seldom
slow in using their bayonets against any household that received them
unwillingly, and the battered state of the entrance door showed that
the villa had been entered forcibly.
The great corridor, like many of the rooms, was hung with portraits
of grisly saints and meek-eyed Madonnas, and of many a lank-visaged
and long-bearded hidalgo, with breast-plate, high ruff, and
bowl-hilted toledo, looking with calm pride, or it might be defiance,
from the flapping canvas, which had been slashed in mere wantonness
by the sabres of the French dragoons.
Save that a number of chairs were overthrown, that several lockfast
places had been broken open, and that many empty bottles strewed the
floors, the furniture appeared to have been left untouched. The gilt
clocks on the marble mantel-pieces ticked no more, and the spiders
had spun their webs over the hour-hands and dials, thus showing that
the villa must have been deserted by the family and servants of the
count for some weeks. The damask sofas and ottomans were covered
with dust, and many books lay strewn about on the dry and now musty
esparto grass that covered some of the floors, which were nearly all
of highly polished oak.
Quentin picked up a lady's white kid glove, and a black fan covered
with silver spangles.
"These have belonged to the mother of the Conde, who resided here;
where can the poor lady have fled--what may have become of her?" said
Isidora as they wandered on, her voice and Quentin's sounding strange
and hollow in the emptiness of the great villa.
All the bed-chambers were untouched, save in some instances where a
mirror or cheval glass was starred or smashed by a pistol-shot; and
so, ere long, the visitors in their search found themselves in the
chapel, a little gothic oratory of very florid architecture, which
had evidently formed a portion of a much older edifice than the
present villa; for there, on a pedestal tomb, having a row of carved
weepers round it, and little niches and sockets for twelve votive
lamps, lay side by side the effigies of two knights in chain-armour,
with their cross-hilted swords and military girdles on, and their
hands folded in prayer. Quentin drew near them with interest, for he
remembered the quaint effigy of Sir Ranulph Crawford, Keeper of the
Palace of Carrick, in the old kirk of Rohallion, and while Isidora
knelt for a moment before the little altar, he read on a brass plate
this inscription:
"Aqui yazen el noble y valiente Conde, Don Fernando de Estremera, y
su hijo, Don Antonio, Condes de Maciera y Estremera; fueron muertos
en una batalla con los Infieles, en tiempo del Rey Don Alfonso de
Castile, Leon, y Galicia. Requiescant in pace."
"More than seven hundred years ago," thought Quentin. "Sir Ranulph's
tomb is a thing of yesterday compared with this."
He surveyed with emotions of pleasure and interest this little
oratory, the sanctuary of which, with its half Moorish and
arabesque-like carvings was a miracle of art and a mass of gilding.
It must have been erected almost immediately after the expulsion of
the Arabs from that part of Castile, and so those Counts of Maciera
had lived and died before the days of the Cid himself,
"The venging scourge of Moors and traitors,
The mighty thunderbolt of war!
Mirror bright of chivalry,
Ruy, my Cid Campeador!"
for he had been born when Canute the Dane swayed his sceptre over
England, and when Malcolm of Scotland--Rex Victoriosissimus--was
nailing the hides of the Norsemen on the doors of his parish
churches. It was a remote period to look back to, and yet, in some
of her national features, particularly in a proneness to bloodshed,
Spain was pretty much the same as when the Cid shook his lance before
the walls of Zamora.
Light, many hued, crimson, blue, and green, streamed, with flakes of
dusky yellow, through the chapel's deep-arched windows, shedding a
warm glow on its carved pillars, ribbed arches, and lettered stones
that marked the graves of the dead below, where the Condes de
Maciera, "el noble--el magno," were mingling with the dust; but now
their dwelling-place was desolate, and the heir of all their titles,
a half-desperate outlaw and soldier, was serving as a guerilla in the
band of Baltasar the Salamanquino.
Various stools and hassocks were still disposed near the oak rail of
the sanctuary, as if to mark where several of the fugitive household
had knelt but recently.
The chapel suddenly grew very dark, but was lightened as quickly by a
terrific flash without. Against this glare of light the mullions and
tracery of the windows were darkly but distinctly defined, and, as it
passed away, a peal of thunder that seemed directly over their heads,
shook the place. Crossing herself, Donna Isidora sprang close to
Quentin's side, and taking her by the hand, he led her back to a more
cheerful part of the voiceless mansion.
The weather was completely broken now, and to Quentin it seemed that
unless there was some change, of which there was no probability, as
the year was closing, the army were likely to have a fine time of it,
after breaking up from their snug cantonments in Portugal to open a
campaign in Spain.
There was not the slightest appearance of the rain abating, so
feeling the necessity for making themselves as comfortable as
circumstances would permit, Quentin set about closing all the doors
and windows, and selecting a room that had evidently been the boudoir
of the Condesa, as its walls were covered by white silk starred with
gold; there, too, were pale-blue damask hangings, starred with
silver, a piano and guitar, with piles of music, illuminated books,
sketches, statuettes, and ornaments, all indicative of a graceful
taste and refined mind.
These were all untouched, so there Quentin installed his companion,
whose eye was the first to detect a gilt cage, at the bottom of which
a former friend and favourite, a little singing bird, lay dead and
covered with dust.
She seated herself near the window to watch the black clouds whirling
in masses around the peaks of the great mountain ranges that lay
between her and her temporary home in Portugal, and on the rain
plashing frothily on the marble terrace, gorging the gurgoyles of the
parapet and the basin of the bronze fountain, which had long since
overflowed.
Meanwhile Quentin bustled about; to have the run of such a house was
not without interest. He soon procured a brasero, which he filled
with charcoal, and lighted by flashing some powder in the pan of a
pistol; and for warmth, he made Isidora place her dainty little feet
upon it. Canisters of biscuits and of fruit of various kinds,
several flasks of Valdepenas and Champagne, a ham, and several other
matters which he found in overhauling the cook's department and
butler's pantry, with all the appurtenances of the table, he
appropriated with a campaigner's readiness, and insisted upon his
fair companion partaking of a repast with him.
The storm--the rain, at least, as we shall have to show--continued
much longer than they anticipated. But if it lasted for a fortnight,
there seemed to be still provisions enough in the old villa to
prevent them from being starved out even in that time.
For a period both were now perplexed and thoughtful.
Donna Isidora was considering how all this unlooked-for deviation and
delay were to be explained to her brother, who, as a Spaniard, was
naturally suspicious, and of whom she stood in considerable awe. The
latter emotion made her conceive that the most peaceful and prudent
course would be, to say nothing whatever about the casual discovery
of her disguise, or her wanderings on the way before reaching
Portalegre; but then, how was she to account for the absence of the
horse and mule, but for the loss of which, after their flight from
the French, she and Quentin would have been last night safe and
separated at the place of their destination!
Then when remembering the haughty temper of Cosmo, and the cold and
hostile manner in which he was treated by him, Quentin felt some
alarm lest his honour might be impugned by the protracted delay in
rejoining the Borderers; while his own experience, and the hints he
had received from Major Middleton, made him now resolve, however
great his reluctance would be in leaving that fine old soldier and
Askerne, Monkton, and other 25th men, to volunteer into some other
regiment--perhaps in the 94th, if his friend Captain Warriston could
scheme it for him.
The moidores which Ribeaupierre had so generously shared with him,
made a transfer of this kind appear the more easy in a monetary point
of view; and luckily the army had not yet begun to move, so his
courage was still unimpeachable.
Reflection showed that Cosmo would render his life intolerable, and
make promotion an impossibility.
"I shall seek out another colonel, if he can be found in the service.
I can only fail in the attempt, and be no worse than I am," said
Quentin, unintentionally aloud, so that the dark eyes of the Spanish
girl rested inquiringly on him.
He now seated himself in the same window opposite Isidora, who having
her own thoughts, was silent. Evening was drawing near--the short
evening of a dark November day, and the ceaseless rain still plashed
heavily down, while the wind howled drearily around the solitary
villa.