knowledge also. The Testament, from its first page to its last, became
intelligible to him. From a mere sketch, partly dim and partly blurred
and blotted, it grew into a transparency through which light shone upon
his soul, every word being itself a star.
He often read his book to Dolores, though he allowed her to suppose it
was Latin, and that he was improvising a translation for her benefit.
She would listen attentively, though with a deeper shade of sadness on
her melancholy face. Never did she volunteer an observation, but she
always thanked him at the end in her usual respectful manner.
These readings were, in fact, a trouble to Dolores. They gave her pain,
like the sharp throbs that accompany the first return of consciousness
to a frozen member, for they awakened feelings that had long been
dormant, and that she thought were dead for ever. But, on the other
hand, she was gratified by the condescension of her young master in
reading aloud for her edification. She had gone through the world
giving very largely out of her own large loving heart, and expecting
little or nothing in return. She would most gladly have laid down her
life for Don Juan or Don Carlos; yet she did not imagine that the
old servant of the house could be to them much more than one of the
oak tables or the carved chairs. That "Señor Don Carlos" should take
thought for her, and trouble himself to do her good, thrilled her with
a sensation more like joy than any she had known for years. Little
do those whose cups are so full of human love that they carry them
carelessly, spilling many a precious drop as they pass along, dream how
others cherish the few poor lees and remnants left to them.
Moreover Carlos, in the eyes of Dolores, was half a priest already, and
this lent additional weight, and even sacredness, to all that he said
and did.
One evening he had been reading to her, in the inner room by the light
of the little silver lamp. He had just finished the story of Lazarus,
and he made some remark on the grateful love of Mary, and the costly
sacrifice by which she proved it. Tears gathered in the dark wistful
eyes of Dolores, and she said with sudden and, for her, most unusual
energy, "That was small wonder. Any one would do as much for him that
brought the dear dead back from the grave."
"He has done a greater thing than even that for each of us," said
Carlos.
But Dolores withdrew into her ordinary self again, as some timid
creature might shrink into its shell from a touch. "I thank your
Excellency," she said, rising to withdraw, "and I also make my
acknowledgments to Our Lady, who has inspired you with such true piety,
suitable to your holy calling."
"Stay a little, Dolores," said Carlos, as a sudden thought occurred to
him; "I marvel it has so seldom come into my mind to ask you about my
mother."
"Ay, señor. When you were both children, I used to wonder that you and
Don Juan, while you talked often together of my lord your father, had
scarce a thought at all of your lady mother. Yet if she had lived _you_
would have been her favourite, señor."
"And Juan my father's," said Carlos, not without a slight pang of
jealousy. "Was my noble father, then, more like what my brother is?"
"Yes, señor; he was bold and brave. No offence to your Excellency, for
one you love I warrant me _you_ could be brave enough. But he loved
his sword and his lance and his good steed. Moreover, he loved travel
and adventure greatly, and never could bear to abide long in the same
place."
"Did he not make a voyage to the Indies in his youth?"
"He did; and then he fought under the Emperor, both in Italy, and in
Africa against the Moors. Once His Imperial Majesty sent him on some
errand to Leon, and there he first met my lady. Afterwards he crossed
the mountains to our home, and wooed and won her. He brought her, the
fairest young bride eyes could rest on, to Seville, where he had a
stately palace on the Alameda."
"You must have grieved to leave your mountains for the southern city."
"No, señor, I did not grieve. Wherever your lady mother dwelt was home
to me. Besides, 'a great grief kills all the rest.'"
"Then you had known sorrow before. I thought you lived with our house
from your childhood."
"Not altogether; though my mother nursed yours, and we slept in the
same cradle, and as we grew older shared each other's plays. At seven
years old I went home to my father and mother, who were honest,
well-to-do people, like all my forbears--good 'old Christians,' and
noble--they could wear their caps in the presence of His Catholic
Majesty. They had no girl but me, so they would fain have me ever in
their sight. For ten years and more I was the light of their eyes; and
no blither lass ever led the goats to the mountain in summer, or spun
wool and roasted chestnuts at the winter fire. But, the year of the
bad fever, both were stricken. Christmas morning, with the bells for
early mass ringing in my ears, I closed my father's eyes; and three
days afterwards, set the last kiss on my mother's cold lips. Nigh upon
five-and-twenty years ago,--but it seems like yesterday. Folks say
there are many good things in the world, but I have known none so good
as the love of father and mother. Ay de mi, señor, _you_ never knew
either."
"When your parents died, did you return to my mother?"
"For half a year I stayed with my brother. Though no daughter ever shed
truer tears over the grave of better parents, I was not then quite
broken-hearted. There was another love to whisper hope, and to keep me
from desolation. He--Alphonso ('tis years and years since I uttered
the name save in my prayers) had gone to the war, telling me he would
come back and claim me for his bride. So I watched for him hour by
hour, and toiled and spun, and spun and toiled, that I might not go
home to him empty-handed. But at last a lad from our parish, who had
been a comrade of his, returned and told me all. _He_ was lying on the
bloody field of Marignano, with a French bullet in his heart. Señor,
the sisters you read of could 'go to the grave and weep there.' And yet
the Lord pitied them."
"He pities all who weep," said Carlos.
"All good Christians, he may. But though an old Christian, I was not
a good one. For I thought it bitter hard that my candle should be
quenched in a moment, like a wax taper when the procession is done.
And it came often into my mind how the Almighty, or Our Lady, or the
Saints, could have helped me if they would. May they forgive me; it is
hard to be religious."
"I do not think so."
"I suppose it is not hard to learned gentlemen who have been at the
colleges. But how can simple men and women tell whether they are
keeping all the commandments of God and Holy Church? It well may be
that I had done something, or left something undone, whereby Our Lady
was displeased."
"It is not Our Lady, but our Lord himself, who holds the keys of hell
and of death," said Carlos, gaining at the moment a new truth for his
own heart. "None enter the gates of death, as none shall come forth
through them, save at his command. But go on, Dolores, and tell me how
did comfort come to you?"
"Comfort never came to me, señor. But after a time there came a kind
of numbness and hardness that helped me to live my life as if I cared
for it. And your lady mother (God rest her soul!) showed me wondrous
kindness in my sorrow. It was then she took me to be her own maiden.
She had me taught many things, such as reading and various cunning
kinds of embroidery, that I might serve her with them, she said; but I
well knew they were meant to turn my heart away from its own aching. I
went with her to Seville. I could be glad for her, señor, that God had
given her the good thing he had denied to me. At last it came to be
almost like joy to me to see the great deep love there was between your
father and her."
This was a degree of unselfishness beyond the comprehension of Carlos
just then. He felt his own wound throb painfully, and was not sorry
to turn the conversation. "Did my parents reside long in Seville?" he
asked.
"Not long, señor. Their life there was a gay one, as became their rank
and wealth (for, as your worship knows, your father had a noble estate
then). But soon they both grew tired of the gay world. My lady ever
loved the free mountains, and my lord--I scarce can tell what change
passed over him. He lost his care for the tourney and the dance, and
betook himself instead to study. Both were glad to withdraw to this
quiet spot. Here your brother Don Juan was born; and for nigh a year
afterwards no lord and lady could have led a happier and, at the same
time, more pious and orderly life, than did your noble parents."
The thoughtful eye of Carlos turned to the inscription on the window,
and kindled with a strange light. "Was not this room my father's
favourite place of study?" he asked.
"It was, señor. Of course, the house was not then as it now is. Though
simple enough, after the Seville palace with its fountains and marble
statues, and doors grated with golden network, it was still a seemly
dwelling-place for a noble lord and lady. There was glass in all the
windows then, though through neglect and carelessness it has been
broken (even your worship may remember how Don Juan sent an arrow
through a quarrel-pane in the west window one day), so we thought it
best to remove the traces."
"My parents led a pious life, you say?"
"Truly they did, señor. They were good and charitable to the poor; and
they spent much of their time reading holy books, as you do now. Ay de
mi! what was wrong with them I know not, save that perhaps they were
scarce careful enough to give Holy Church all her dues. And I used
sometimes to wish that my lady would show more devotion to the blessed
Mother of God. But she _felt_ it all, no doubt; only it was not her
way, nor my lord's either, to be for ever running about on pilgrimage
or offering wax candles, nor yet to keep the father confessor every
instant with his ear to their lips."
Carlos started, and turned an earnest inquiring gaze upon her. "Did my
mother ever read to you as I have done?" he asked.
"She sometimes read me good words out of the Breviary, señor. All
thing went on thus, until one day when a letter came from the Emperor
himself (as I believe), desiring your father to go to him, to Antwerp.
The matter was to be kept very private, but my lady used to tell me
everything. My lord thought he was to be sent on some secret mission
where skill was needed, and perchance peril was to be met. For it
was well known that he loved such affairs, and was dexterous in the
management of them. So he parted cheerily from my lady, she standing
at the gate yonder, and making little Don Juan kiss hands to him as he
rode down the path. Woe for the poor babe, that never saw his father's
face again! And worse woe for the mother! But death heals all things,
except sin.
"After three weeks or a month, more or less, two monks of St. Dominic
rode to the gates one day. The younger stayed without in the hall with
us; while the elder, a man of stern and stately presence, had private
audience of my lady in this chamber where we sit now--a place of death
it has seemed to me ever since. For the audience had not lasted long
until I heard a cry--such a cry!--it rings in my ears even now. I
hastened to my lady. She had swooned--and long, long was it before
sense returned again. Do not keep looking at me, señor, with eyes so
like hers, or I cannot tell you more."
"Did she speak? Did she reveal anything to you?"
"_Nothing_, señor. During the days that followed, only things without
meaning or connection, such as those in fever speak, or broken words of
prayer, were on her lips. Until the very last, and then she was worn
and weak, and could but receive the rites of the Church, and whisper
a few directions about the poor babes. She bade us give you the name
you bear, since _he_ had said that his next boy should be called for
the great Emperor. Then she prayed very earnestly, 'Lord, take him
Thyself--take him Thyself!' Doctor Marco, who was present, thought she
meant the poor little new-born babe--supposing, and no wonder, that it
would be better tended in heaven by Our Lady and the angels, than here
on earth. But I _know_ it was not you she thought of."
"My poor mother--God rest her soul! Nay, I doubt not that now she rests
in God," Carlos added, softly.
"And so the curse fell on your house, señor; and in such sorrow were
you born. Yet you grew up merry lads, you and Don Juan."
"Thanks to thy care and kindness, well-beloved and faithful nurse. But,
Dolores, tell me truly--have you never heard anything further of, or
from, my father?"
"From him, never. Of him, that I believed, _never_."
"And what do you believe?" Carlos asked, eagerly.
"I know nothing, señor. I have heard all that your worship has heard,
and no more."
"Do you think it is true--what we have all been told--of his death in
the Indies?"
"I know nothing, señor," Dolores repeated, with the air of a person
determined to _say_ nothing.
But Carlos would not allow her to escape thus. Both had gone too far
to leave the subject without probing it to its depths. And both felt
instinctively that it was not likely again to be discussed between
them. Laying his hand on her arm, and looking steadily in her face, he
asked,--
"Dolores, are you sure my father is dead?"
Seemingly relieved by the form the question had taken, she met his gaze
without flinching, and answered in tones of evident sincerity, "Sure as
that I sit here--so help me God." After a long pause she added, as she
rose to go, "Señor Don Carlos, be not offended if I counsel you this
once, since I held you a babe in my arms, and you will find none that
loves you better--if a poor old woman may say so to a young and noble
caballero."
"Say all you think to me, my dear and kind nurse."
"Then, señor, I say, leave vain thoughts and questions about your
father's fate. 'There are no birds in last year's nests;' and 'Water
that has run by will turn no mill.' And I entreat of you to repeat the
same to your noble brother when you find opportunity. Look before you,
señor, and not behind; and God's best blessings rest on you!"
Dolores turned to go, but turning back again, stood irresolute.
"What is it, Dolores?" Carlos asked; hoping, perhaps, for some further
glimmer of light upon that dark past, from which she implored him to
turn his thoughts.
"If it please you, Señor Don Carlos--" and she paused and hesitated.
"Can I do anything for you?" said Carlos, in a kind, encouraging tone.
"Ay, señor, that you can. With your learning and your good Book, surely
you can tell me whether the soul of my poor Alphonso, dead on the
battle-field without shrift or sacrament, has yet found rest with God?"
Thus the true woman's heart, though so full of sympathy for others,
still turned back to its own sorrow, which lay deepest of all.
Carlos felt himself unexpectedly involved in a difficulty. "My book
tells me nothing on the subject," he said, after some thought. "But I
am sure you may be comforted, after all these years, during which you
have diligently prayed, and sought the Church's prayers for him."
The long eager gaze of her wistful eyes asked mournfully, "Is this
_all_ you can tell me?" But her lips only said, "I thank your
Excellency," as she withdrew.
XI.
The Light Enjoyed.
"Doubt is slow to clear and sorrow is hard to bear,
And each sufferer has his say, his scheme of the weal and the woe;
But God has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear;
The rest may reason and welcome, 'tis we musicians _know_."
R. BROWNING.
Bewildering were the trains of thought which the conversation just
narrated awakened in the mind of Carlos. On the one hand, a gleam
of light was shed upon his father's career, suggesting a possible
interpretation of the inscription on the window, that thrilled his
heart with joy. On the other, the termination of that career was
involved in even deeper obscurity than before; and he was made to feel,
more keenly than ever, how childish and unreal were the dreams which he
and his brother had been wont to cherish upon the subject.
Moreover, Dolores, just before she left him, had drawn a bow at a
venture, and most unintentionally sent a sharp arrow through a joint
in his harness. Why could he find no answer to a question so simple
and natural as the one she had asked him? Why did the Book, which had
solved so many mysteries for him, shed not a ray of light upon this
one? Whence this ominous silence of the apostles and evangelists upon
so many things that the Church most loudly proclaimed? Where, in his
Book, was purgatory to be found at all? Where was the adoration of the
Virgin and the saints? Where were works of supererogation? But here
he started in horror, as one who suddenly saw himself on the brink of
a precipice. Or rather, as one dwelling secure and contented within
a little circle of light and warmth, to whom such questions came as
intimations of a chaos surrounding it on every side, into which a
chance step might at any moment plunge him.
Most earnestly he entreated that the Lord of his life, the Guide of
his spirit, would not let him go forth to wander there. He prayed,
expressly and repeatedly, that the doubts which began to trouble him
might be laid and silenced. His prayer was answered, as all true prayer
is sure to be, but it was not _granted_. He whose love is strong
and deep enough to work out its good purpose in us even against the
pleadings of our own hearts, saw that his child must needs pass through
"a land of darkness" to reach the clearer light beyond. Conflicts
fierce and terrible must be his portion, if indeed he were to take his
place amongst those "called and chosen and faithful" ones who, having
stood beside the Lamb in his contest with Antichrist, shall stand
beside him on the sea of glass mingled with fire.
Already Carlos was in training for that contest--though as yet he knew
not that there was any contest before him, save the general "striving
against sin" in which all Christians have to take part. For the joy
of the Lord is the Christian's strength in the day of battle. And he
usually prepares those faithful soldiers whom he means to set in the
forefront of the hottest battle, by previously bestowing that joy upon
them in very full measure. He who is willing to "sell all that he
hath," must first have found a treasure, and what "the joy thereof" is
none else may declare.
In this joy Carlos lived now; and it was as yet too fresh and new to be
greatly disturbed by haunting doubts or perplexing questions. These,
for the present, came and passed like a breath upon a surface of molten
gold, scarcely dimming its lustre for a moment.
It had become his great wish to receive Orders as soon as possible,
that he might consecrate himself more entirely to the service of his
Lord, and spread abroad the knowledge of his love more widely. With
this view, he determined on returning to Seville early in October.
He left Nuera with regret, especially on account of Dolores, who had
taken a new place in his consideration, and even in his affections,
since he had begun to read to her from his Book. And, though usually
very calm and impassive in manner, she could scarcely refrain from
tears at the parting. She entreated him, with almost passionate
earnestness, to be very prudent and careful of himself in the great
city.
Carlos, who saw no special danger likely to menace him, save such as
might arise from his own heart, felt tempted to smile at her foreboding
tone, and asked her what she feared for him.
"Oh, Señor Don Carlos," she pleaded, with clasped hands, "for the love
of God, take care; and do not be reading and telling your good words to
every one you meet. For the world is an ill place, your worship, where
good is ofttimes evil-spoken of."
"Never fear for me," returned Carlos, with his frank, pleasant smile.
"I have found nothing in my Book but the most Catholic verities, which
will be useful to all and hurtful to none. But of course I shall be
prudent, and take due care of my words, lest by any extraordinary
chance they might be misinterpreted. So that you may keep your mind at
peace, dear Mother Dolores."
XII.
The Light Divided from the Darkness.
"I felt and feel, what'er befalls,
The footsteps of thy life in mine."
TENNYSON.
In the glorious autumn weather, Don Carlos rode joyfully through cork
and chestnut groves, across bare brown plains, and amidst gardens
of pale olives and golden orange globes shining through dark glossy
leaves. He had long ago sent back to Seville the guard with which his
uncle had furnished him, so that his only companion was a country
youth, trained by Diego to act as his servant. But although he passed
through the very district afterwards immortalized by the adventures of
the renowned Don Quixote, no adventure fell to his lot. Unless it may
count for an adventure that near the termination of his journey the
weather suddenly changed, and torrents of ruin, accompanied by unusual
cold, drove him to seek shelter.
"Ride on quickly, Jorge," he said to his attendant, "for I remember
there is a venta[4] by the roadside not far off. A poor place truly,
where we are little likely to find a supper. But we shall find a roof
to shelter us and fire to warm us, and these at present are our most
pressing needs."
[4] An inn.
Arrived at the venta, they were surprised to see the lazy landlord
so far stirred out of his usual apathy as to busy himself in trying
to secure the fastening of the outer door, that it might not swing
backwards and forwards in the wind, to the great discomfort of all
within the house. The proud indifferent Spaniard looked calmly up from
his task, and remarked that he would do all in his power to accommodate
his worship. "But unfortunately, señor and your Excellency, a _very_
great and principal nobleman has just arrived here, with a most
distinguished train of fine caballeros--his lordship's gentlemen and
servants; and kitchen, hall, and chamber are as full of them as a hive
is full of bees."
This was evil news to Carlos. Proud, sensitive, and shy, there could
be nothing more foreign to his character than to throw himself into
the society of a person who, though really only his equal in rank, was
so much his superior in all that lends rank its charm in the eyes of
the vulgar. "We had better push on to Ecija," said he to his reluctant
attendant, bravely turning his face to the storm, and making up his
mind to ten miles more in drenching rain.
At that moment, however, a tall figure emerged from the inner door,
opening into the long room behind the stable and kitchen, that formed
the only tolerable accommodation the one-storied venta afforded.
"Surely, señor, you do not intend to go further in this storm," said
the nobleman, whose fine thoughtful countenance Carlos could not but
fancy that he had seen before.
"It is not far to Ecija, señor," returned Carlos, bowing. "And 'First
come first served,' is an excellent proverb."
"The first-comer has certainly one privilege which I am not disposed
to waive--that of hospitably welcoming the second. Do me the favour to
come in, señor. You will find an excellent fire."
Carlos could not decline an invitation so courteously given. He was
soon seated by the wood fire that blazed on the hearth of the inner
room, exchanging compliments, in true Spanish fashion, with the
nobleman who had welcomed him so kindly.
Though no one could doubt for an instant the strangers possession of
the pure "sangre azul,"[5] yet his manners were more frank and easy and
less ceremonious than those to which Carlos had been accustomed in the
exclusive and privileged class of Seville society--a fact accounted for
by the discovery, afterwards made, that he was horn and educated in
Italy.
[5] "Blue blood."
"I have the pleasure of recognizing Don Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos y
Meñaya," said he. "I hope the babe about whom his worship showed such
amiable anxiety recovered from its indisposition?"
This then was the personage whom Carlos had seen in such close
conversation with the physician Losada. The association of ideas
immediately brought back the mysterious remark about his father he
had overheard on that occasion. Putting that aside, however, for the
present, he answered, "Perfectly, I thank your grace. We attribute the
recovery mainly to the skill and care of the excellent Dr. Cristobal
Losada."