THE DISGUISE.
With the assistance of some passers-by, the wounded page was borne, as
he had desired, to Don Gonzales’s house, while, in accordance with an
order from Lorenzo Bezan, the now lifeless body of the jailor, for he
it was who had attempted the life of the lieutenant-governor, was borne
away to the barrack yard. At the door of Don Gonzales’s house the page
was met by Ruez and Isabella; and those who held the wounded boy,
hastily telling of his hurt, and the manner in which it was received,
carried him, as directed by Isabella, to her brother’s room, and a
surgeon was at once sent for.
“Sister,” whispered Ruez, “did you hear what those people said?”
“What, brother?”
“Why, that the page saved the life of the lieutenant-governor, Lorenzo
Bezan?”
“Yes.”
“He must have been hard by, for the page had only just left us.”
“True.”
“Yet he was not with the rest who entered the house,” continued Ruez.
“No,” answered Isabella, “some one said he hastened away for a
surgeon.”
“Hark!”
“Who called you, just now, sister?” asked the brother.
“It was only the groan of that poor boy. I wish they would bring the
surgeon.”
“But he calls your name; go to him, dear Isabella.”
“O, they have found the surgeon, and here he comes,” said his sister.
And thus indeed it was. Entering the apartment, the surgeon prepared to
examine the wound, but in a moment he called to Isabella, saying:
“Lady, this individual is one of thine own sex! and, I am very sorry to
say, is mortally wounded.”
“A woman!”
“Yes, lady; see, she would speak to you; she beckons you near.”
“Lady, I need not ask what that professional man says. I know too well
by my own feelings that I must die, indeed that I am dying!”
“O, say not so; perhaps there may yet be hopes,” said Isabella,
tenderly.
“Nay, there is none; indeed it is better, far better as it is.”
“Why, do you wish to die?” asked Isabella, almost shrinking from her.
“Yes. There is nought left for me to live for, and it is sweet to die,
too, for him, for him I have so dearly, so truly loved!”
“Of whom do you speak?”
“General Bezan!”
“You love him?”
“Ay, lady, I believe far better than you can ever do.”
“Me!”
“Yes, for I know your own heart, and his true love for you!”
“Who are you?”
“That matters not. But where is he? I thought he followed me here.”
“He went for the surgeon, and I have not seen him,” was the reply.
Isabella trembled, for at that moment General Bezan, hastening back
from the surgeon’s, and despatching some matter that occurred by the
way, now entered the house, and was greeted most cordially by Don
Gonzales and Ruez. And from them he learned the extent of the injury,
and, moreover, that the supposed page was a woman, disguised in a
page’s costume.
“Ah, general!” said Don Gonzales, “I fear, this is some little affair
of gallantry on your part that will result rather seriously.”
“Be assured, sir,” said the soldier, “that I cannot in any way explain
the matter, and that I think there is some decided mistake here.”
“Let us go to her apartment and see what can be done for her injury,”
said General Bezan, after a moment’s pause, “be she whom she may.”
Just as they entered the apartment, the surgeon had loosened the dress
of the sufferer at the throat, and there fell out into sight the
insignia of the golden fleece and cross of St. Sebastian, in a scroll
of diamonds that heralded the royal arms of Spain, and which none but
those in whose veins coursed royal blood could wear! The surgeon
started back in amazement, while Don Gonzales uncovered out of respect
to the emblem. Springing to the side of the couch, General Bezan turned
the half averted face towards him, while he seized the hand of the
sufferer, and then exclaimed:
“Is this a miracle-is this a dream-or is this really the Countess
Moranza?”
“It is the Countess Moranza,” replied the suffering creature, while her
eyes were bent on Lorenzo Bezan with an expression of most ineffable
tenderness.
All this while Isabella stood aghast, quite in the rear of them all;
but that look was not lost upon her; she shuddered, and a cold
perspiration stood upon her brow. Had she lived to see such a
sight-lived to see another preferred to herself? Alas, what knew she of
the scene before her? was it not a shameless one? Had Lorenzo Bezan
deceived this high-born and noble lady, and leaving her to follow him,
came hither, once more to strive for her love? Her brain was in a
whirlwind of excitement, the room grew dark, she reeled, and would have
fallen but for the assistance of Ruez, who helped her to her room, and
left her there, himself as much amazed at what he had seen as his
sister could possibly be.
“Has she gone?” asked the sufferer.
“Who, lady?” said the soldier, tenderly.
“Isabella Gonzales.”
“Yes,” replied the father. “Do you desire to see her?”
“O yes, I must see her, and quickly; tell her I must see her.”
The father retired; while Lorenzo Bezan said, as he bent over the
person of the countess:
“Alas, I cannot ask thee now what all this means; you are too ill to
talk; what may I, what can I do for thee?”
“Nothing, Lorenzo Bezan. Draw nearer-I have loved thee dearly,
passionately loved thee, loved thee as a woman can love; it was not
designed that I should win thy heart-it was already another’s; but it
was designed, the virgin be thanked, that though I might not wed thee,
I might die for thee!”
“O, countess, countess, your words are like daggers to my heart. I have
been a thoughtless, guilty wretch, but, Heaven bear me witness, I did
not sin knowingly!”
“Nay, speak not one word. I am dying even now; leave me for a while. I
would be alone with this lady; see, she comes, trembling and bathed in
tears!”
Lorenzo Bezan, almost crazed with the contending emotions that beset
him, knew not what to say-what to do; he obeyed her wish, and left the
room, as did also the rest, leaving Isabella and the Countess Moranza
alone together. General Bezan walked the adjoining room like one who
had lost all self-control-now pressing his forehead with both hands, as
if to keep back the press of thoughts, and now, almost groaning aloud
at the struggling of his feelings within his throbbing breast. The
light broke in upon him; while he had been so happy, so inconsiderate
at Madrid, in the society of the beautiful and intelligent woman; while
he had respected and loved her like a brother, he had unwittingly been
planting thorns in her bosom! He saw it all now. He even recalled the
hour when he told her of his love for Isabella Gonzales-and remembered,
too, the sudden illness that she evinced. “Alas! how blind I have been,
how thoughtless of all else but myself, and my own disappointments and
heart-secrets. Next to Isabella, I could have loved that pure and
gentle being. I did feel drawn to her side by unspeakable tenderness
and gratitude for the consolation she seemed ever so delicately to
impart; but for this right hand I would not have deceived her, the
virgin bear me witness.”
The moments seemed hours to him, while he waited thus in such a state
of suspense as his frame of mind might be supposed to indicate. The
surgeon entered to take his leave.
“How is she, sir?” asked Lorenzo Bezan, hastily.
“I have not seen her since we left her with Don Gonzales’s daughter.
She desired to be left alone with her, you remember, and it is best to
do as she wishes. My skill can do her no good. She cannot live but a
very few hours, and I may as well retire.”
“There is, then, no hope for her, no possibility of recovery?”
“None!”
Throwing himself into a chair, Lorenzo Bezan seemed perfectly overcome
with grief. He did not weep, no tears came to his relief; but it was
the fearful struggle of the soul, that sometimes racks the stout frame
and manly heart. The soldier who had passed so many hours on the
battle-field-who had breathed the breath of scores of dying men, of
wounded comrades, and bleeding foes, was a child now. He clasped his
hands and remained in silence, like one wrapped in prayer.
He had not remained thus but a short time, when a slave summoned him to
the bedside of the dying countess. He found her once more alone.
Isabella had retired to her own apartment.
“General,” said the sufferer, holding out her hand, which he pressed
tenderly to his lips!
“Forgive me, Countess Moranza, pray forgive me?”
“I have nothing to forgive, and for my sake charge yourself with no
blame for me. It is my dying request, for I can stay but a little
longer. I have one other to make. You will grant it?”
“Anything that mortal can do I will do for thee.”
“Take, then, this package. It contains papers and letters relative to
myself, my estates, and to you. Strictly obey the injunctions therein
contained.”
“I will,” said the soldier, kneeling.
“This promise is sacred, and will make me die the happier,” she said,
drawing a long sigh. “I have explained to her you love the cause of my
singular appearance here, and have exculpated you from all blame on my
account.”
“Ah! but countess, it is terrible that you should have sacrificed your
life to save mine.”
“Say not so; it is the only joy of this moment, for it has saved me
from the curse of the suicide!” she almost whispered, drawing him
closer to her side as she spoke. “I could not live, save in the light
of your eyes. I knew you were poor, comparatively so-that fortune would
place your alliance with her you have loved beyond question as to
policy. I resolved to follow you-do all in my power to make you
happy—ask of you sometimes to remember me—and then—”
“O, what then?” said Lorenzo Bezan, almost trembling.
“Die by my own hands, in a way that none should know! But how much
happier has Heaven ordered it. I could have wished, have prayed for
such a result; but not for one moment could I have hoped for it. As it
is I am happy.”
“And I am wretched,” said the soldier; “had the choice been offered me
of thy death or mine, how quickly would I have fallen for thee, who
hast been more than a sister, a dear, kind sister to me.”
The sufferer covered her face with her hands; his tender words, and his
gentle accents of voice, and the truthful expression of his face, for
one moment reached her hear; through its most sensitive channel! But
the struggle was only for a moment; the cold hand of death was upon
her; she felt even the chill upon her system. A slight shudder ran
through her frame. She crossed her hands upon her bosom, and closing
her eyes, breathed a silent prayer, and pressed the glittering cross
that hung about her neck fervently to her lips. Then turning to the
soldier she said:
“You may well love her, general, for she is very beautiful, and worthy
of you,” referring to Isabella Gonzales, who had just returned to her
apartment.
“She is as lovely in person as in mind. But, alas! must I stand here
powerless, and see you, but an hour ago so perfectly well, so full of
life and beauty, die without one effort to save you?”
“It is useless,” said the sufferer. “I feel that the surgeon is
correct, and I must die very shortly.”
“O, that I might save you, countess, even by mine own life!”
“You would do so, I know you would; it is so like your nature,” she
said, turning her still beautiful eyes upon him.
“I would, indeed I would,” answered General Bezan.
A sweet smile of satisfaction stole over her pale features as she once
more languidly closed her eyes, and once more that ominous shudder
stole through her frame.
“It is very cold, is it not?” she asked, realizing the chill that her
paralyzed circulation caused.
“Alas, countess, I fear it is the chill of death you feel!”
“So soon? well, I am prepared,” she said, once more kissing the cross.
“Heaven bless and receive your pure and lovely spirit,” he said,
devoutly, as she once more replaced her hand within his own.
“Farewell, Lorenzo Bezan. Sometimes think kindly of the Countess
M-o-r-a-n-z-a!”
She breathed no more. That faithful and beautiful spirit had fled to
heaven!