HIDDEN THINGS
The next day Senor Don Guzman de Cardona arrived, and the whole house
was in a commotion of excitement. There was to be no school, and
everything was bustle and confusion. I passed my time in my own room in
reflecting severely upon myself for the imprudent words by which I had
thrown one more difficulty in the way of this poor harassed child.
Dolores this day seemed perfectly passive in the hands of her mother and
sisters, who appeared disposed to show her great attention. She allowed
them to array her in her most becoming dress, and made no objection to
anything except removing the bracelet from her arm. "Nobody's gifts
should take the place of her mother's," she said, and they were obliged
to be content with her wearing of the diamond bracelet on the other arm.
Don Guzman was a large, plethoric man, with coarse features and heavy
gait. Besides the scar I have spoken of, his face was adorned here and
there with pimples, which were not set down in the miniature. In the
course of the first hour's study, I saw him to be a man of much the same
stamp as Dolores's father--sensual, tyrannical, passionate. He seemed in
his own way to be much struck with the beauty of his intended wife, and
was not wanting in efforts to please her. All that I could see in her
was the settled, passive paleness of despair. She played, sang,
exhibited her embroidery and painting, at the command of Madame Mendoza,
with the air of an automaton; and Don Guzman remarked to her father on
the passive obedience as a proper and hopeful trait. Once only when he,
in presenting her a flower, took the liberty of kissing her cheek, did I
observe the flashing of her eye and a movement of disgust and
impatience, that she seemed scarcely able to restrain.
The marriage was announced to take place the next week, and a holiday
was declared through the house. Nothing was talked of or discussed but
the _corbeille de mariage_ which the bridegroom had brought--the
dresses, laces, sets of jewels, and cashmere shawls. Dolores never had
been treated with such attention by the family in her life. She rose
immeasurably in the eyes of all as the future possessor of such wealth
and such an establishment as awaited her. Madame Mendoza had visions of
future visits in Cuba rising before her mind, and overwhelmed her
daughter-in-law with flatteries and caresses, which she received in the
same passive silence as she did everything else.
For my own part, I tried to keep entirely by myself. I remained in my
room reading, and took my daily rides, accompanied by my servant--seeing
Dolores only at mealtimes, when I scarcely ventured to look at her. One
night, however, as I was walking through a lonely part of the garden,
Dolores suddenly stepped out from the shrubbery and stood before me. It
was bright moonlight, by which her face and person were distinctly
shown. How well I remember her as she looked then! She was dressed in
white muslin, as she was fond of being, but it had been torn and
disordered by the haste with which she had come through the shrubbery.
Her face was fearfully pale, and her great, dark eyes had an unnatural
brightness. She laid hold on my arm.
"Look here," she said, "I saw you and came down to speak with you."
She panted and trembled, so that for some moments she could not speak
another word. "I want to ask you," she gasped, after a pause, "whether I
heard you right? Did you say"--
"Yes, Dolores, you did. I did say what I had no right to say, like a
dishonorable man."
"But is it true? Are you sure it is true?" she said, scarcely seeming to
hear my words.
"God knows it is," said I despairingly.
"Then why don't you save me? Why do you let them sell me to this
dreadful man? He don't love me--he never will. Can't you take me away?"
"Dolores, I am a poor man. I cannot give you any of these splendors your
father desires for you."
"Do you think I care for them? I love you more than all the world
together. And if you do really love me, why should we not be happy with
each other?"
"Dolores," I said, with a last effort to keep calm, "I am much older
than you, and know the world, and ought not to take advantage of your
simplicity. You have been so accustomed to abundant wealth and all it
can give, that you cannot form an idea of what the hardships and
discomforts of marrying a poor man would be. You are unused to having
the least care, or making the least exertion for yourself. All the world
would say that I acted a very dishonorable part to take you from a
position which offers you wealth, splendor, and ease, to one of
comparative hardship. Perhaps some day you would think so yourself."
While I was speaking, Dolores turned me toward the moonlight, and fixed
her great dark eyes piercingly upon me, as if she wanted to read my
soul. "Is that all?" she said; "is that the only reason?"
"I do not understand you," said I.
She gave me such a desolate look, and answered in a tone of utter
dejection, "Oh, I didn't know, but perhaps _you_ might not want me. All
the rest are so glad to sell me to anybody that will take me. But you
really do love me, don't you?" she added, laying her hand on mine.
What answer I made I cannot say. I only know that every vestige of what
is called reason and common sense left me at that moment, and that there
followed an hour of delirium in which I--we both were _very_ happy--we
forgot everything but each other, and we arranged all our plans for
flight. There was fortunately a ship lying in the harbor of St.
Augustine, the captain of which was known to me. In course of a day or
two passage was taken, and my effects transported on board. Nobody
seemed to suspect us. Everything went on quietly up to the day before
that appointed for sailing. I took my usual rides, and did everything as
much as possible in my ordinary way, to disarm suspicion, and none
seemed to exist. The needed preparations went gayly forward. On the day
I mentioned, when I had ridden some distance from the house, a messenger
came post-haste after me. It was a boy who belonged specially to
Dolores. He gave me a little hurried note. I copy it:--
"Papa has found all out, and it is dreadful. No one else knows, and
he means to kill you when you come back. Do, if you love me, hurry
and get on board the ship. I shall never get over it, if evil comes
on you for my sake. I shall let them do what they please with me, if
God will only save _you_. I will try to be good. Perhaps if I bear
my trials well, he will let me die soon. That is all I ask. I love
you, and always shall, to death and after.
DOLORES."
There was the end of it all. I escaped on the ship. I read the marriage
in the paper. Incidentally I afterwards heard of her as living in Cuba,
but I never saw her again till I saw her in her coffin. Sorrow and
death had changed her so much that at first the sight of her awakened
only a vague, painful remembrance. The sight of the hair bracelet which
I had seen on her arm brought all back, and I felt sure that my poor
Dolores had strangely come to sleep her last sleep near me.
Immediately after I became satisfied who you were, I felt a painful
degree of responsibility for the knowledge. I wrote at once to a friend
of mine in the neighborhood of St. Augustine, to find out any
particulars of the Mendoza family. I learned that its history had been
like that of many others in that region. Don Jose had died in a bilious
fever, brought on by excessive dissipation, and at his death the estate
was found to be so incumbered that the whole was sold at auction. The
slaves were scattered hither and thither to different owners, and Madame
Mendoza, with her children and remains of fortune, had gone to live in
New Orleans.
Of Dolores he had heard but once since her marriage. A friend had
visited Don Guzman's estates in Cuba. He was living in great splendor,
but bore the character of a hard, cruel, tyrannical master, and an
overbearing man. His wife was spoken of as being in very delicate
health,--avoiding society and devoting herself to religion.
I would here take occasion to say that it was understood when I went
into the family of Don Jose, that I should not in any way interfere with
the religious faith of the children, the family being understood to
belong to the Roman Catholic Church. There was so little like religion
of any kind in the family, that the idea of their belonging to any faith
savored something of the ludicrous. In the case of poor Dolores,
however, it was different. The earnestness of her nature would always
have made any religious form a reality to her. In her case I was glad to
remember that the Romish Church, amid many corruptions, preserves all
the essential beliefs necessary for our salvation, and that many holy
souls have gone to heaven through its doors. I therefore was only
careful to direct her principal attention to the more spiritual parts of
her own faith, and to dwell on the great themes which all Christian
people hold in common.
Many of my persuasion would not have felt free to do this, but my
liberty of conscience in this respect was perfect. I have seen that if
you break the cup out of which a soul has been used to take the wine of
the gospel, you often spill the very wine itself. And after all, these
forms are but shadows of which the substance is Christ.
I am free to say, therefore, that the thought that your poor mother was
devoting herself earnestly to religion, although after the forms of a
church with which I differ, was to me a source of great consolation,
because I knew that in that way alone could a soul like hers find peace.
I have never rested from my efforts to obtain more information. A short
time before the incident which cast you upon our shore, I conversed with
a sea-captain who had returned from Cuba. He stated that there had been
an attempt at insurrection among the slaves of Don Guzman, in which a
large part of the buildings and out-houses of the estate had been
consumed by fire. On subsequent inquiry I learned that Don Guzman had
sold his estates and embarked for Boston with his wife and family, and
that nothing had subsequently been heard of him.
Thus, my young friend, I have told you all that I know of those singular
circumstances which have cast your lot on our shores. I do not expect at
your time of life you will take the same view of this event that I do.
You may possibly--very probably will--consider it a loss not to have
been brought up as you might have been in the splendid establishment of
Don Guzman, and found yourself heir to wealth and pleasure without
labor or exertion. Yet I am quite sure in that case that your value as a
human being would have been immeasurably less. I think I have seen in
you the elements of passions, which luxury and idleness and the too
early possession of irresponsible power, might have developed with fatal
results. You have simply to reflect whether you would rather be an
energetic, intelligent, self-controlled man, capable of guiding the
affairs of life and of acquiring its prizes,--or to be the reverse of
all this, with its prizes bought for you by the wealth of parents. I
hope mature reflection will teach you to regard with gratitude that
disposition of the All-Wise, which cast your lot as it has been cast.
Let me ask one thing in closing. I have written for you here many things
most painful for me to remember, because I wanted you to love and honor
the memory of your mother. I wanted that her memory should have
something such a charm for you as it has for me. With me, her image has
always stood between me and all other women; but I have never even
intimated to a living being that such a passage in my history ever
occurred,--no, not even to my sister, who is nearer to me than any other
earthly creature.
In some respects I am a singular person in my habits, and having once
written this, you will pardon me if I observe that it will never be
agreeable to me to have the subject named between us. Look upon me
always as a friend, who would regard nothing as a hardship by which he
might serve the son of one so dear.
I have hesitated whether I ought to add one circumstance more. I think I
will do so, trusting to your good sense not to give it any undue weight.
I have never ceased making inquiries in Cuba, as I found opportunity, in
regard to your father's property, and late investigations have led me to
the conclusion that he left a considerable sum of money in the hands of
a notary, whose address I have, which, if your identity could be proved,
would come in course of law to you. I have written an account of all the
circumstances which, in my view, identify you as the son of Don Guzman
de Cardona, and had them properly attested in legal form.
This, together with your mother's picture and the bracelet, I recommend
you to take on your next voyage, and to see what may result from the
attempt. How considerable the sum may be which will result from this, I
cannot say, but as Don Guzman's fortune was very large, I am in hopes it
may prove something worth attention.
At any time you may wish to call, I will have all these things ready for
you.
I am, with warm regard,
Your sincere friend,
THEOPHILUS SEWELL.
When Moses had finished reading this letter, he laid it down on the
pebbles beside him, and, leaning back against a rock, looked moodily out
to sea. The tide had washed quite up to within a short distance of his
feet, completely isolating the little grotto where he sat from all the
surrounding scenery, and before him, passing and repassing on the blue
bright solitude of the sea, were silent ships, going on their wondrous
pathless ways to unknown lands. The letter had stirred all within him
that was dreamy and poetic: he felt somehow like a leaf torn from a
romance, and blown strangely into the hollow of those rocks. Something
too of ambition and pride stirred within him. He had been born an heir
of wealth and power, little as they had done for the happiness of his
poor mother; and when he thought he might have had these two wild horses
which have run away with so many young men, he felt, as young men all
do, an impetuous desire for their possession, and he thought as so many
do, "Give them to me, and I'll risk my character,--I'll risk my
happiness."
The letter opened a future before him which was something to speculate
upon, even though his reason told him it was uncertain, and he lay there
dreamily piling one air-castle on another,--unsubstantial as the great
islands of white cloud that sailed through the sky and dropped their
shadows in the blue sea.
It was late in the afternoon when he bethought him he must return home,
and so climbing from rock to rock he swung himself upward on to the
island, and sought the brown cottage. As he passed by the open window he
caught a glimpse of Mara sewing. He walked softly up to look in without
her seeing him. She was sitting with the various articles of his
wardrobe around her, quietly and deftly mending his linen, singing soft
snatches of an old psalm-tune.
She seemed to have resumed quite naturally that quiet care of him and
his, which she had in all the earlier years of their life. He noticed
again her little hands,--they seemed a sort of wonder to him. Why had he
never seen, when a boy, how pretty they were? And she had such dainty
little ways of taking up and putting down things as she measured and
clipped; it seemed so pleasant to have her handling his things; it was
as if a good fairy were touching them, whose touch brought back peace.
But then, he thought, by and by she will do all this for some one else.
The thought made him angry. He really felt abused in anticipation. She
was doing all this for him just in sisterly kindness, and likely as not
thinking of somebody else whom she loved better all the time. It is
astonishing how cool and dignified this consideration made our hero as
he faced up to the window. He was, after all, in hopes she might blush,
and look agitated at seeing him suddenly; but she did not. The foolish
boy did not know the quick wits of a girl, and that all the while that
he had supposed himself so sly, and been holding his breath to observe,
Mara had been perfectly cognizant of his presence, and had been
schooling herself to look as unconscious and natural as possible. So she
did,--only saying,--
"Oh, Moses, is that you? Where have you been all day?"
"Oh, I went over to see Parson Sewell, and get my pastoral lecture, you
know."
"And did you stay to dinner?"
"No; I came home and went rambling round the rocks, and got into our old
cave, and never knew how the time passed."
"Why, then you've had no dinner, poor boy," said Mara, rising suddenly.
"Come in quick, you must be fed, or you'll get dangerous and eat
somebody."
"No, no, don't get anything," said Moses, "it's almost supper-time, and
I'm not hungry."
And Moses threw himself into a chair, and began abstractedly snipping a
piece of tape with Mara's very best scissors.
"If you please, sir, don't demolish that; I was going to stay one of
your collars with it," said Mara.
"Oh, hang it, I'm always in mischief among girls' things," said Moses,
putting down the scissors and picking up a bit of white wax, which with
equal unconsciousness, he began kneading in his hands, while he was
dreaming over the strange contents of the morning's letter.
"I hope Mr. Sewell didn't say anything to make you look so very gloomy,"
said Mara.
"Mr. Sewell?" said Moses, starting; "no, he didn't; in fact, I had a
pleasant call there; and there was that confounded old sphinx of a Miss
Roxy there. Why don't she die? She must be somewhere near a hundred
years old by this time."
"Never thought to ask her why she didn't die," said Mara; "but I presume
she has the best of reasons for living."
"Yes, that's so," said Moses; "every old toadstool, and burdock, and
mullein lives and thrives and lasts; no danger of their dying."
"You seem to be in a charitable frame of mind," said Mara.
"Confound it all! I hate this world. If I could have my own way now,--if
I could have just what I wanted, and do just as I please exactly, I
might make a pretty good thing of it."
"And pray what would you have?" said Mara.
"Well, in the first place, riches."
"In the first place?"
"Yes, in the first place, I say; for money buys everything else."
"Well, supposing so," said Mara, "for argument's sake, what would you
buy with it?"
"Position in society, respect, consideration,--and I'd have a splendid
place, with everything elegant. I have ideas enough, only give me the
means. And then I'd have a wife, of course."
"And how much would you pay for her?" said Mara, looking quite cool.
"I'd buy her with all the rest,--a girl that wouldn't look at _me_ as I
am,--would take me for all the rest, you know,--that's the way of the
world."
"It is, is it?" said Mara. "I don't understand such matters much."
"Yes; it's the way with all you girls," said Moses; "it's the way you'll
marry when you do."
"Don't be so fierce about it. I haven't done it yet," said Mara; "but
now, really, I must go and set the supper-table when I have put these
things away,"--and Mara gathered an armful of things together, and
tripped singing upstairs, and arranged them in the drawer of Moses's
room. "Will his wife like to do all these little things for him as I
do?" she thought. "It's natural I should. I grew up with him, and love
him, just as if he were my own brother,--he is all the brother I ever
had. I love him more than anything else in the world, and this wife he
talks about could do no more."
"She don't care a pin about me," thought Moses; "it's only a habit she
has got, and her strict notions of duty, that's all. She is housewifely
in her instincts, and seizes all neglected linen and garments as her
lawful prey,--she would do it just the same for her grandfather;" and
Moses drummed moodily on the window-pane.