A SISTER'S SACRIFICE.
It is the dawn of a sweet Sabbath morn, peaceful and calm. The last
lingering star is trembling still in the sky, but the fleecy clouds
have caught a tint of rose from the not yet risen sun.
By the archway of the dwelling of the Aguileras stands a bay horse,
gaily caparisoned. His saddlecloth has been made out of a Moorish
mantle striped with gold, a relic of happier days. Deep fringes of
scarlet girdle his chest and encircle his haunches, and tassels of the
same bright hue hang from the band above his eyes. The noble animal
looks conscious of his dignity; he has been generously fed for the
last few days, and the unwonted luxury of corn has restored to the old
war-horse some of his former spirit. But "with arched neck, and
drooping head, and glancing eye, and quivering ear," Campeador gently
receives the caresses of the young mistress whose hand has helped to
deck and to feed him, and who with tears and sighs is bidding him now
farewell.
Inez is no striking specimen of Spanish beauty, though her appearance
on this morning must have awakened sympathy and interest even in a
stranger. Her graceful form is rather below the middle size; she has
the clear brunette complexion and the large almond-shaped eyes, shaded
with long dark lashes, which are characteristic of the Andalusian
race. The cheek is very pale, and the eyes are heavy with weeping, and
the slender hand trembles as it strokes Campeador's long flowing mane.
Inez has passed a restless, miserable night, devising all kinds of
wild schemes for keeping her brother from the perilous encounter;
schemes which melted away with the first gleam of morning light. If
she kept back his horse, if she detained his accoutrements, Alcala,
his sister well knew, would but provide himself with others. He would
rather ride into the circus on one of the wretched hacks destined for
slaughter, than fail at the hour of appointment. Inez could now but
send, both by letter and word, entreaties to her brother that he would
at least come and see her before going to the Plaza de Toros. The
letter and messages were intrusted to Chico, a dark-browed,
bandy-legged, ill-favoured groom, who was to lead the horse about a
mile beyond the boundaries of Seville, to the Posada de Quesada, where
Alcala had chosen to pass the preceding night. Chico's stunted form
was half hidden under the burden of finery which he carried; he did
not, however, bear with him the picador's spear, for that needful
weapon Alcala had selected for himself, not trusting the choice of it
to a servant.
A little in the rear of the group appeared Teresa; but Lucius, had he
been present, would scarcely have recognized in her the work-soiled,
poorly-dressed old drudge whom he had seen bargaining with the hawker.
Teresa was now attired in her best Sunday apparel; and the look of
complacent pride on her wrinkled face was in strong contrast to that
of despairing sorrow on that of her youthful lady. Teresa allowed
herself the one annual treat of going to a bull-fight, to her Spanish
mind the greatest of pleasures. She had a cousin to whom belonged the
office of cleansing the blood-stained arena, and who always contrived
to smuggle Teresa into a good seat, she being content to go early and
wait for hours before the entertainment began. Nothing would have
bribed the ancient Andalusian to have been absent from the Plaza de
Toros on the present occasion; her strong desire to go overcame her
reluctance to leaving for the greater part of the day her infirm old
mistress and the sorrowing Inez. To Teresa, blinded by pride even
greater than that which usually characterizes the Spaniard, the coming
struggle in the Plaza de Toros appeared in a very different light from
that in which it was viewed by Alcala's more clear-minded and
tender-hearted sister. Full of the glories of the race of heroes from
whom her master was descended, Teresa felt not a doubt that she was
going to be a witness to his triumph. It had been a bitter humiliation
to the old domestic to know that Alcala was earning his bread by
honest industry. Had he consulted Teresa, the family might have
starved before the caballero had so demeaned himself as to work for
the firm of Messrs. Passmore and Perkins. But it was a very different
thing to behold Don Alcala de Aguilera ride in magnificent array into
the Coliseo, to confront danger with all the courage of his race, and
win the plaudits of assembled thousands. Teresa felt as an old
retainer of some knight might have done in days of chivalry, when his
master rode forth, with gilded spurs and waving plume, to win honour
in the lists at some brilliant tourney. To Teresa's partial eyes
Campeador was the noblest of steeds, worthy to carry the bravest of
masters. The arm of an Aguilera, once raised to strike, must hurl to
the dust whatever opposed it. Teresa would not have feared the result
had Alcala had, like Hercules, to slay the Nemean lion.
And the hopes of Teresa extended far beyond the triumph of a day.
Donna Antonia de Rivadeo, the wealthiest as well as the most beautiful
heiress in Seville, was to be present at the _gran foncion_ in the
Coliseo. The lady would look on Alcala no longer as the drudging
clerk, serving a foreign heretic, but as the chivalrous caballero of
Andalusia, valiant as ever was knight who couched lance against the
Moors in the time of Queen Isabella. The days of pinching poverty and
humiliation would be ended at last; Alcala would spear his bull, and
win his beautiful bride, and Teresa would receive at last the reward
of her long faithful service. In imagination Teresa, in the richest
and stiffest of silks, already presided over a numerous household in a
sumptuous palace, instead of toiling from morning till night, ill paid
and scantily fed, with no one to abuse and order about but
bandy-legged Chico, who always disputed her commands. Such bright
visions seemed to take ten years of age from the ambitious Teresa, and
she saw with impatience and indignation the grief which showed how
little Inez shared in such hopes.
"Shame on those tears, Donna Inez!" exclaimed old Teresa. "It is well
that your illustrious brother is not here to see your weakness; it
would make the caballero blush for his sister! Are you a daughter of
the house of De Aguilera, and yet tremble with cowardly fear?" The
spirit of Inez was too much broken for the insolent taunt to raise
even a flush on her cheek.
They were gone. Campeador had been led away by Chico, and Teresa had
hobbled off with what energy hope and pride could lend towards the
Plaza de Toros. Inez returned into the house to perform a homely duty
which sorrow did not make her forget. There was no one but herself to
prepare her grandmother's early cup of chocolate; Inez made it ready,
and then carried it to the bedside of Donna Benita.
There were fewer signs of poverty in the old lady's apartment than
perhaps in any other in the house. The draperies, though very ancient,
had yet an effect picturesque and rich. The coverlet over the bed was
delicately white, and had been embroidered with small bunches of
flowers in coloured silks by Inez. There was fine old lace on the cap
which covered Donna Benita's scanty gray hairs; very thin and aged was
the face which appeared beneath it.
"Where's Alcala? where's my boy?" murmured the widowed lady. The cloud
on her intellect did not prevent Donna Benita from loving her
grandson, or missing his presence, as a child might do that of an
accustomed companion. "He was not here yesterday, was he? tell him to
come to me quickly."
Inez silently kissed the thin wasted hand extended towards her. She
stood with her back to the light as she first beat up the pillows and
then proffered the cup, that the old lady might not see the traces of
tears on her face. When Donna Benita, in a fretful tone, repeated her
question, Inez tried to speak cheerfully, as she replied that Alcala
had been specially engaged. Inez had to say the words thrice over
before the aged lady could take in their meaning.
"And where's Teresa? why does she leave me?" asked the invalid, in
feeble complaining accents.
"Teresa has gone to the Plaza de Toros," replied poor Inez with an
effort.
"Ah! I used to go there with my Pedro--long, long ago," murmured Donna
Benita. The feeble mind was trying to recall images once traced on the
memory, but gradually fading away into one dull blank of oblivion.
Even that slight mental effort wearied the aged lady, and having
finished her chocolate, she soon fell into that dozing state in which
she now passed by far the greater part of her time.
As soon as Inez saw that her grandmother slept, she glided away to the
patio, and from thence through the vestibule to the archway, to watch
for the coming of her brother. Could he resist her entreaties? could
he refuse her the one poor boon which she had asked, the sad luxury of
bidding him--perhaps a last--farewell?
While she was gloomily gazing forth into the now silent street, a
sudden thought occurred to the mind of the sister. Inez would make one
effort more to move the resolution of Aguilera, or to bribe her patron
saint to protect him. The maiden hastened back into the patio without
giving herself time for reflection. There, in a recess between two
columns, Inez had left the writing materials which she had used when
penning the note intrusted to Chico. She sank down on her knees at the
place, and resting her blotting-book on the base of one of the
columns, hastily, and with trembling fingers, wrote the following
letter:--
"I have vowed a solemn vow to Santa Anna. If you, brother of my heart,
venture to-day into the arena, and the blessed saint bear you unharmed
out of the terrible encounter, I will take the veil, and devote myself
to her service for the rest of my life in the nunnery of Cordova.
Judge what you risk, Alcala, before you ride into the Plaza de Toros.
If, regardless of my prayers and my tears, you keep your fatal
appointment, you lose either your sister or your life. You may return
unharmed and victorious, but it will be but to see your only sister
offer herself up as a thank-offering for your preservation. If you
would miss your Inez, if you have ever loved her, break your dreadful
engagement. I know too well what it will cost you to do so, but
anything is better than the misery--the ruin which is before us all if
you keep it!"
With this missive in her hand Inez returned to the archway. If Alcala
were coming at all before going to the circus, by this time he would
surely have come. The poor girl glanced up and down the street; there
was not a single person to be seen, save a muleteer who chanced to be
passing, and who turned in some surprise to see a senora standing
alone at the entrance of a mansion. Teresa and Chico both being
absent, Inez had no messenger to send with her letter, unless she
employed the stranger whom chance had brought into her way. The lady
beckoned to the muleteer to approach her, drew off her rosary--the
only ornament which she wore--for money she had none, and gave the
coral beads, with the letter, into the hand of the man.
"For the love of mercy," she cried, "hasten with this letter to Don
Alcala de Aguilera, at the Posada de Quesada. Oh, delay not; go as
for your life!"
"I know the illustrious caballero, senora," said the muleteer, with an
air of respectful pity. "The lady shall have no cause to complain of
my slackness; ere an hour be passed I will bring a reply."
Was it a satisfaction or a terror to Inez when that letter was
despatched? Perhaps it was both. Various feelings struggled in her
breast, and it would have been difficult, even to herself, to have
decided which was uppermost there. Inez, though pious, according to
her superstitious views of religion, had no inclination whatever for
the prison life of a convent. It was only her intense, unselfish love
for her brother which induced her to threaten him and herself with a
separation which would be, she felt, to her a living death. Inez had,
from infancy, clung with the fondest affection to Alcala, her only
brother. He had been to her companion, tutor, friend; and since the
death of their last surviving parent, had almost taken towards the
orphan girl the place of a father. With Alcala, Inez had shared
poverty, and had scarcely felt its burden. What luxury that wealth
might have procured would have been to Inez like that of sitting
beside or at the feet of Alcala, in the cool of the evening, enjoying
the music of his guitar, or blending her voice with his own? Often
too had Alcala read aloud to his sister, while her fingers plied the
needle. Inez had specially loved to work for her brother, that so
poverty should not oblige him to dress in a way unbefitting his birth.
The library of the Aguileras was but a small one; it consisted of a
few books which had belonged to their wealthy grandfather,--it need
scarcely be said that a Bible was not amongst them; but from reading,
and listening to reading, the mind of Inez had received more
cultivation than is usually found amongst women in Andalusia, though
in England her education would have been considered very incomplete.
It had been no small advantage to Inez that she had been almost
entirely secluded from the frivolous society of Seville. The pride of
poverty had had much to do with the maiden's seclusion; for Alcala had
been unwilling that his sister should accept hospitality which he had
not the means of returning. Inez had never complained of want of
amusement; she had scarcely even regretted the quietness in which she
was passing the spring-time of youth, her hours divided between
attendance on her grandmother and other duties, and the sweet
employment of making her brother happy. Inez had her little garden in
the patio to tend, and the maiden delighted in flowers. It seemed to
her now, as she stood in that court, leaning against a pillar, with
her eyes gloomily fixed on the broken fountain, that the past had been
a bright dream, which was passing from her for ever. Unless Alcala
should yield to her entreaties (and then his life would be clouded
over by a sense of disgrace), there seemed to Inez to be no
alternative between weeping over a sepulchre or in a convent cell. In
either case Alcala, the joy, the sunshine of her life, would be lost
to his only sister.
Slowly, very slowly to Inez passed the minutes. Alcala had not come,
and his absence was in itself a reply. But before the hour was over,
Inez, who had gone back to her watch at the entrance, saw the muleteer
returning. The young lady could not refrain from running forth into
the street to meet the messenger, who might be the bearer of a letter.
The man held out to the eager girl a fragment of paper, crumpled and
dusty, which had evidently been torn from a book. A few scarcely
legible words were written in pencil on the margin of the page,--"_It
is too late! Forgive, and pray for Alcala!_"