A LAST FAREWELL.
The agony of suspense which had been suffered by the wretched Don
Lopez whilst his life hung trembling in the balance was now shown by
his vehement impatience to get out of Seville. The governor could
hardly thank his preserver; he would taste no refreshment; he would
not so much as sit down, so restless was he in his eager desire to
escape. De Rivadeo was furious even at the brief delay which took
place ere his daughter obeyed his reiterated call. Lopez would on no
account stop to encounter the chance of a repetition of such an attack
by the mob as that from which he had so narrowly escaped with life.
Mr. Passmore's carriage was still at the entrance, and the
manufacturer consented, though with no good grace, to take the
fugitives to the nearest town, where they would be likely to get
another conveyance to carry them to some port. Lopez de Rivadeo must
follow Queen Isabella into exile, as others, worthless as himself,
already had done.
Diego, who liked adventure, and whose intelligence might further the
governor's escape, volunteered to take his seat beside Mr. Passmore's
coachman, who had been so much frightened by the events of the morning
that he could hardly manage the reins.
Just as these little arrangements had been concluded, Donna Antonia
re-entered the patio, leaning on the arm of Inez, and followed by
Teresa. The governor's daughter now wore a veil and mantilla; these,
to a Spanish lady, needful articles of dress, had been given to
Antonia by Inez, notwithstanding the angry expostulations of the old
duenna. Teresa was indignant to see her mistress robbed, as she called
it, of what she so ill could spare.
"My only comfort," muttered Teresa, as she hobbled after the ladies,
"is that the mantilla has been worn till the silk will hardly hold
together, and that the veil has more of neat darning on it than of the
original lace."
Alcala came forward to hand Donna Antonia to the carriage; oppressed
as he was with weakness and languor, the cavalier of Andalusia would
not suffer another to take his place in doing the honours of his house
to his unfortunate guests. This was the first day on which the proud
beauty of Seville had met Don Alcala de Aguilera since that on which
he had rashly risked his life for her sake. If any touch of womanly
feeling was in Antonia's selfish bosom, that feeling must have been
stirred now into remorse as she beheld her father's preserver.
Alcala's pale features showed the sufferings which he had lately
undergone: he looked like one newly risen from a sick-bed, with sunken
cheek, colourless lip, and languid eye. As with graceful courtesy the
cavalier proffered his wasted hand to the lady, on the minds of both
Alcala and Antonia flashed back memory of the hour when that hand had
been deemed unworthy to touch the white kid glove of the heiress--that
hour when, like an empress, she had stepped into her galley on the
glittering Guadalquivir.
Silently Alcala conducted Antonia through the arched way to the
carriage which was to bear her from Seville. Not till she had placed
her foot on the carriage-step did the cavalier utter a word.
"Farewell, senorita!" said Alcala. Antonia turned towards him, but in
silence; the eyes of the two met--it was the last look that was ever
to pass between them. Soon the motion of the rolling wheels separated
Alcala and Antonia de Rivadeo for ever.
But for the support of Lucius's arm, Alcala could hardly have walked
back to the patio. He sank down wearily on the first seat that he
reached, too much exhausted to do more than extend his hand, with a
faint smile on his lips, to Inez, who knelt by his side.
"Bring wine, Teresa!" cried Inez, looking anxiously at the face of her
brother.
"Wine!" exclaimed the old woman, stung into momentary forgetfulness of
the presence of the English stranger--"wine!" she repeated bitterly,
"when the last drop left in this ruined house was poured out for that
proud woman; and there's not a cuarto in the coffer to buy more for
the caballero if his life depended upon it! Woe, woe to the
Aguileras!"
"Never say so!" cried Lucius Lepine, and the joy of being the bearer
of good news seemed to the young man at that moment to outweigh all
that he had gone through to procure it. "The Aguileras have a casket
of golden plate and rich jewels safely buried near a palm-tree beside
a wood, not two miles from Seville; they have only to dig it out and
possess it. Donna Inez, the Englishman has kept his word."
"A casket of gold plate and jewels!" almost screamed out Teresa, who
scarcely dared to believe her own ears; "you don't say it--you can't
mean it!--what! the box with clamps of steel, the old senora's
jewel-case, which I've handled many a day!" The wrinkled hand laid on
the arm of Lucius was shaking with violent excitement.
"I do say it--I do mean it," replied Lucius, whose countenance was
beaming with pleasure.
"But, my friend, how is this possible?" asked Alcala; "the miserable
Chico--"
"Lies murdered by his own accomplices," said Lucius more gravely;
"fearful retribution has overtaken the servant who robbed his master."
Lucius then recounted to his deeply interested hearers the tale of his
night's adventures, dwelling as lightly as he could on what only
related to himself. No one interrupted the narration, save Teresa, who
could not refrain ever and anon from uttering some ejaculation, now of
indignation, now of delight. When Lucius came to the account of
burying the box near the palm-tree, the old duenna could restrain her
feelings no longer. To the astonishment of the Englishman she suddenly
flung herself at his feet, and clasped his knees in an ecstasy of
gratitude, admiration, and joy!
"The blessing of all the saints be upon you, brave, noble Senor
Inglesito!" exclaimed old Teresa, while tears streamed down her
wrinkled face; "if you were as deep-dyed a heretic as Luther himself,
I would bless you a thousand times over! You have saved a noble family
from ruin!"