WANDERING ALONE.
"My mother's friend then deserts me, all earthly help fails me,"
thought Inez, as she turned away from the house of Donna Maria de
Rivas. "And yet I am not forsaken." Inez glanced upwards where the
deep blue sky of Andalusia spread its sapphire dome above the white
glaring buildings around her. Inez marvelled at her own calmness under
circumstances so trying. She had been wandering alone through the
streets of Seville, protected from the stare of passers-by only by the
thick folds of the veil which the maiden drew closely around both form
and face. Inez was painfully aware that she was committing a breach of
Spanish etiquette, amounting almost to impropriety. In her country it
is deemed unseemly, even for a girl of the humble classes, to walk
abroad unaccompanied by a matron; the young sister of De Aguilera
knew, therefore, that she was but too likely to meet with insult; and
her modest, sensitive nature rendered such an ordeal to her peculiarly
distressing. Inez could more boldly have made her way through a
thicket, where the wolf might lurk or the adder coil, than down those
bright, busy streets. But not even the rude Spanish _gamins_ had
uttered a jest as the lady glided timidly along; the beggars, wrapped
in their mantles of rags, had not held out their hats to solicit alms.
Idle cigaretto-smoking loungers had courteously moved aside to let the
maiden go by. It almost appeared to Inez as if she were guarded by
invisible spirits, borne up by a strength not her own.
The maiden was indeed supported by comfort derived from a heavenly
source. Inez, before starting on her walk, had opened the Book which
was so dear to her brother, and which had so happily escaped the
search of the police. The first words which she saw in it were enough
for Inez; she closed the volume, kissed and replaced it in her bosom,
repeating over and over to herself the promise, "_I will never leave
nor forsake thee_." Inez uttered no prayer to Virgin or to saint: had
not Alcala told her that all such prayers were useless? Alcala trusted
in God alone, and so should his sister trust. Inez went forth,
feeding, as it were, on the strong, sustaining nourishment afforded
to her soul by a few sweet words from the Holy Scriptures. She was not
so wretched, not nearly so wretched, as she had been when Alcala had
ridden to the Plaza de Toros. Though Inez had, as yet, only a glimmer
of gospel light, she had a comforting persuasion that Alcala was now
suffering in a cause in which it was an honour to suffer: no selfish
pride, no mere spirit of romance, had brought him to his present
condition of peril. His Lord would be with Alcala, even in his prison,
as with holy martyrs of old. Desolate as she was, as regarded human
help, well might Inez look up to heaven and say, "I am not forsaken."
But where was the maiden now to turn her steps? Must she return to her
home without making any further effort to find some protector for
Aguilera? An almost unconscious prayer for guidance burst from the
pallid lips of Inez. Then came the suggestion to her mind, "Wherefore
should I not seek help from Antonia, the governor's daughter? Her
father is all-powerful in Seville, and she--oh! if she be not harder
than this pavement that I tread on, surely Antonia must interest
herself in the fate of Alcala!"
If there were one being in the world who was an object of aversion to
the gentle Inez, that being was the wealthy beauty of Seville, whose
pride had so nearly cost the life of Aguilera. It had been a subject
of no small thankfulness to Inez, that her brother, since receiving
his wound, had never once mentioned Antonia's name. There was no
misfortune more dreaded by Inez than that of having to embrace as a
sister the heartless Antonia. But when Alcala lay ill of his wound,
inquiries had been made regarding his state by a messenger wearing the
governor's livery. Inez could scarcely believe it possible that
Antonia could reflect without grief and remorse on the pain which she
had caused to one whom, in the judgment of his young sister, no one
could know and not love.
Inez had herself but slight personal acquaintance with Donna Antonia;
they had met at the house of Donna Maria, and had there exchanged a
few words. This slight acquaintance had by no means inclined Inez to
wish for closer intimacy with the governor's daughter. Don Lopez de
Rivadeo was himself a proud insolent upstart, who owed his place to
his relationship to Claret, the confessor of Queen Isabella. No man in
Seville was more unpopular than Don Lopez. The governor only used his
power to fill his coffers. His was the hand to close on the bribe; he
sold offices to the highest bidder; he oppressed the poor, he fleeced
the rich; he was ready at all times, and in all ways, to do the
bidding of one of the most unscrupulous governments that had ever
afflicted even unhappy Spain. It was not willingly that Inez de
Aguilera would ever have sought either mercy or justice from such a
man as Lopez de Rivadeo; she had not the power, even had she the will,
to work on his cupidity; she could only hope to influence him through
the medium of Donna Antonia. The governor's only child was the pride
of her father's heart, as well as the heiress of all his fortune; and
gossip had whispered that the easiest way to climb to the great man's
favour was by a chain of gold or rope of pearl round the neck of his
beautiful daughter.
On, therefore, towards the governor's house went Inez, treading with
weary feet over rough stones, sun-baked pavements, across glaring
plazas. Thankful was the poor wanderer when trees bordering some paseo
(promenade) afforded her temporary shade. Full as was the maiden's
mind of anxiety and sorrow, nature at last would make its wants felt.
Inez had had no refreshment that day since partaking of an early and
slender breakfast, and it was now many hours past noon. Inez had had
much to exhaust a frame not naturally strong, and had never before
walked so far in the heat of the day. The poor girl's mouth was
parched and dry with feverish thirst; weariness oppressed her; she
felt that she could scarcely go further unless she slaked that thirst.
Happily, Seville offers her sparkling fountains to weary wayfarers
like Inez. The maiden, however, shrank from approaching any of the
larger fountains which ornamented the plazas, fearful of being
noticed, perhaps recognized, by some of the gay idlers who congregated
around them. There was a fountain in a more quiet corner of a street,
where a tiny rill of water trickled from the mouth of a stone dolphin
into a basin below. Towards this place Inez now moved her languid
feet.
A man in a high-coned Andalusian hat, and wearing the long cloak which
Spaniards think a needful article of dress even in the warmth of
September, was filling for himself a little tin vessel attached to the
fountain. Very near him squatted on the ground a vendor of fruit, the
large basket before him piled with tempting oranges, citrons, melons,
and figs, and bunches of grapes from Malaga vines. The fruit-seller
was conversing with a third person--a peasant--who was making a simple
meal off roasted chestnuts, while he chatted with his companion. Inez
stood a few paces distant from the group, waiting till the man in the
high hat should have quenched his thirst, that she might satisfy her
own. The maiden thus could not avoid hearing some of the conversation
passing between the three.
"But what was the caballero's crime, eh?" were the first words, spoken
by the peasant, which arrested the attention of Inez.
"White Judaism, folk say," was the reply uttered by the vendor of
fruit.
"White Judaism! what may that be?"
The question was apparently more easily asked than answered, for it
was not till after sundry shrugs, expressive of perplexity, that the
fruit-seller replied: "As far as I can make out, it's plotting to burn
all the churches, knock down the convents, and hang all the friars."
"You've not hit the right mark, my friend," said the man in the
high-peaked hat who was filling the tin. "I should know all about the
matter, for I've travelled as courier to English caballeros; and White
Judaism is their religion, when they've any at all. It's saying that
the holy apostles were Jews, every one of the twelve, and the blessed
Virgin herself only a Jewess!"
The peasant uttered an exclamation of surprise, the fruit-man crossed
himself devoutly. "_Misericordia!_" he cried; "I never knew that White
Judaism was half so bad as that comes to."
"You thought it mere burning and hanging," laughed he in the
Andalusian hat: there was irony in his laughter.
"One don't see many in this Catholic land as hold such notions,"
observed the peasant.
"You don't see the seeds in yon melon; but they are there for all
that," was the significant rejoinder.
"Ay, it only needs the sharp knife to cut open the melon, and there
are the seeds sure enough," said the peasant.
"The governor is ready enough with the knife, and he whets it sharp
enough," gloomily observed the vendor of fruit. "To think of his
ordering off to prison a caballero like Don Alcala de Aguilera!"
"Was it not he who was nearly killed by the bull?" inquired the man
who had just emptied the tin in Spanish fashion--not touching the
vessel with his lips, but throwing back his head, and pouring the
contents into his mouth. The place at the fountain was now left free
for Inez, but she had forgotten her thirst.
"Ay, ay; it's pity for him, I take it, that the bull did not kill him
outright," said the fruit-man.
"Why, what will they do with him, if he is found guilty of Judaism,
black or white?" asked the peasant.
The man who had just left the fountain took on himself to answer the
question, while he made his bargain with the vendor of fruit.
"I'll tell you, friend, what they'll do. (What do you ask now for
those figs?) The judge will find the caballero guilty, of course--for
the folk at the court want such as he out of the way; then he'll be
shipped off to Cuba to work on the plantations. (You may give me a
bunch of those grapes.) At Cuba they chain each Spaniard to a
woolly-headed nigger, two and two; (that's refreshing in weather like
this!) and if the poor convict lag in his work, down comes the whip of
the driver, who lays it smartly on his bare back, till perhaps the
poor wretch drops down dead where he stands!"
The Andalusian went on, enjoying his luscious fruit, quite unconscious
of the keen pang which his idle words had inflicted on a youthful and
tender heart.