sin. I am glad that I have tasted earth's very best and sweetest;
that I know how the wine is red and gives its colour in the cup of
life he honours me to put aside for him." His voice was low and full
of feeling as he said this. Presently he resumed. "But the sin, my
father! Especially my treachery in heart to Juan; that rankled long
and stung deeply. Juan, my brave, generous brother, who would have
struck down any man who dared to hint that I could do, or think,
aught dishonourable! He never knew it; and had he known it, he would
have forgiven me; but I could not forgive myself. I do not think the
self-scorn passed away until--_that_ which happened after I had been
nigh a year in prison. O my father, if God had not interposed to save
me by withholding me from that crime, I shudder to think what my life
might have been. I am persuaded I should have sunk lower, lower, and
ever lower. Perhaps, even, I might have ended in the purple and fine
linen, and the awful pomp and luxury of the oppressors and persecutors
of the saints."
"Nay," said Don Juan, "that would _never_ have been possible to thee,
Carlos. But there is a question I have often longed to ask thee. Does
Juan, my Juan Rodrigo, know and love the Word of God?"
He had asked that question before; but Carlos had contrived, with tact
and gentleness, to evade the answer. Up to this hour he had not dared
to tell his father the truth upon this important subject. Besides the
terrible risk that in some moment of fear or forgetfulness the prior or
his agents might draw an incautious word from the old man's lips, there
was a haunting dread of listeners at key-holes, or secret apertures,
quite natural in one who knew the customs of the Holy Office. But now
he bent down close to the dying man, and spoke to him in a long earnest
whisper.
"Thank God," murmured Don Juan. "I would have no earthly wish
unsatisfied now--if only _you_ were safe. But still," he added, "it
seemeth somewhat hard to me that Juan should have _all_, and you
nothing."
"I _nothing_!" Carlos exclaimed; and had not the room been in darkness
his father would have seen that his eye kindled, and his whole
countenance lighted up. "My father, mine has been the best lot, even
for earth. Were it to do again, I would not change the last two years
for the deepest love, the brightest hope, the fairest joy life has
to offer. For the Lord himself has been the portion of my cup, my
inheritance in the land of the living."
After a silence, he continued, "Moreover, and beside all, I have thee,
my father. Therefore to me it is a joy to think that my beloved brother
has also something precious. How he loved her! But the strangest thing
of all, as I ponder over it now, is the fulfilment of our childhood's
dream. And in me, the weak one who deserved nothing, not in Juan the
hero who deserved everything. It is the lame who has taken the prey. It
is the weak and timid Carlos who has found our father."
"Weak--timid?" said Don Juan, with an incredulous smile. "I marvel who
ever joined such words with the name of my heroic son. Carlos, have we
any wine?"
"Abundance, my father," answered Carlos, who carefully treasured for
his father's use all that was furnished for both of them. Having given
him a little, he asked, "Do you feel pain to-night?"
"No--no pain. Only weary; always weary."
"I think my beloved father will soon be where the weary are at
rest"--"and where the wicked cease from troubling," he added mentally,
not aloud.
He would fain have dropped the conversation then, fearing to exhaust
his father's strength. But the sick man's restlessness was soothed by
his talk. Ere long he questioned, "Is it not near Christmas now?"
Well did Carlos know that it was; and keenly did he dread the return
of the season which ought to bring "peace upon earth." For it would
certainly bring the prisoners a visit; and almost certainly there would
be the offer of special privileges to the penitent, perhaps sacramental
consolation, perhaps permission to hear mass. He shuddered to think
what a refusal to avail himself of these indulgences might entail. And
once and again did he breathe the fervent prayer, that whatever came
upon _him_, neither violence, insult, nor reproach might be allowed to
touch his father.
Moreover, amongst the great festivities of the season, it was more than
likely that a solemn Auto-da-fé might find place. But this was a secret
inner thought, not often put into words, even to himself. Only, if it
were God's will to call his father first!
"It is December," he said, in answer to Don Juan's question; "but
I have lost account of the day. It may be perhaps the twelfth or
fourteenth. Shall I recite the evening psalms for the twelfth, 'Te
dicet hymnus'?"
As he did so, the old man fell asleep, which was what he desired. Half
in the sleep of exhaustion, half in weary restlessness, the next day
and the next night wore on. Once only did Don Juan speak connectedly.
"I think you will see my mother soon," said Carlos, as he bore to his
lips wine mingled with water.
"True," breathed the dying man; "but I am not thinking of that now. Far
better--I shall see Christ."
"My father, are you still in peace, resting on him?"
"In perfect peace."
And Carlos said no more. He was content; nay, he was exceeding glad.
He who in all things will have the pre-eminence, had indeed taken his
rightful place in the heart of the dying, when even the strong earthly
love that was "twisted with the strings of life" had paled before the
love of him.
And in the last watch of the night, when the day was breaking, he sent
his angel to loose the captive's bonds. So gentle was the touch that
freed him, that he who sat holding his hand in his, and watching his
face as we watch the last conscious looks of our beloved, yet knew not
the exact moment when the Deliverer came. Carlos never said "He is
going!" he only said "He is gone!" And then he kissed the pale lips and
closed the sightless eyes--in peace.
None ever thanked God for bringing back their beloved from the gates
of the grave more fervently than Carlos thanked him that hour for
so gently opening unto his those gates that "no man can shut." "My
father, thy rest is won!" he said, as he gazed on the calm and noble
countenance. "They cannot touch thee now. Not all the malice of men
or of fiends can give one pang. A moment since so fearfully in their
power; now so completely beyond it! Thank God! thank God!"
The rain was over, and ere long the sun arose, in his royal robes of
crimson and purple and gold--to the prisoner from the dungeon of the
Triana an ever fresh wonder and joy. Yet not even that sight could win
his eyes to-day from the deeper beauty of the still and solemn face
before him. And as the soft crimson light fell on the pallid cheek and
brow, the watcher murmured, with calm thankfulness,--"'To him sun and
daylight are as nothing, for he sees the glory of God.'"
XLV.
Triumphant.
"For ever with the Lord!
Amen! so let it be!"
MONTGOMERY.
Carlos was still sitting beside that couch, with scarcely more sense of
time than if he had been already where time exists no longer, when the
door of his cell was opened to admit two distinguished visitors. First
came the prior; then another member of the Table of the Inquisition.
Carlos rose up from beside his dead, and said calmly, addressing the
prior, "My father is free!"
"How? what is this?" cried Fray Ricardo, his brow contracting with
surprise.
Carlos stood aside, allowing him to approach and look. With real
concern in his stern countenance, he stooped for a few moments over the
motionless form. Then he asked,--
"But why was I not summoned? Who was with him when he departed?"
"I,--his son," said Carlos.
"But who besides thee?" Then, in a higher key and with more hurried
intonation,--"Who gave him the last rites of the Church?"
"He did not receive them, my lord, for he did not desire them. He said
that Christ was his priest; that he would not confess; and that they
should not anoint him while he retained consciousness."
The Dominican's face grew white with anger, even to the lips.
"_Liar!_" he cried, in a voice of thunder. "How darest thou tell me
that he for whom I watched, and prayed, and toiled, after years and
years of faithful penance, has gone down at last, unanointed and
unassoiled, to hell with Luther and Calvin?"
"I tell thee that he has gone home in peace to his Father's house."
"Blasphemer! liar, like thy father the devil! But I understand all now.
Thou, in thy hatred of the Faith, didst refuse to summon help--didst
let his spirit pass without the aid and consolations of the Church.
Murderer of his soul--thy father's soul! Not content even with that,
thou canst stand there and slander his memory, bidding us believe that
he died in heresy! But that, at least, is false--false as thine own
accursed creed!"
"It is true; and you believe it," said Carlos, in calm, clear, quiet
tones, that contrasted strangely with the Dominican's outburst of
unwonted rage.
And the prior did believe it--there was the sharpest sting. He knew
perfectly well that the condemned heretic was incapable of falsehood:
on a matter of fact he would have received his testimony more readily
than that of the stately "Lord Inquisitor" now standing by his side.
In the momentary pause that followed, that personage came forward and
looked upon the face of the dead.
"If there be really any proof that he died in heresy," he said, "he
ought to be proceeded against according to the laws of the Holy Office
provided for such cases."
Carlos smiled--smiled in calm triumph.
"You cannot hurt him now," he said. "Look there, señor. The King
immortal, invisible, has set his own signet upon that brow, that the
decree may not be reversed nor the purpose changed concerning him."
And the peace of the dead face seemed to have passed into the living
face that had gazed on it so long. Carlos was as really beyond the
power of his enemies as his father was that hour. They felt it; or at
least one of them did. As for the other, his strong heart was torn with
rage and sorrow: sorrow for the penitent, whom he truly loved, and whom
he now believed, after all his prayers and efforts, a lost soul; rage
against the obstinate heretic, whom he had sought to befriend, and who
had repaid his kindness by snatching his convert from his grasp at the
very gate of heaven, and plunging him into hell.
"I will _not_ believe it," he reiterated, with pale lips, and eyes
that gleamed beneath his cowl like coals of fire. Then, softening a
little as he turned to the dead--"Would that those silent lips could
utter, were it only one word, to say that death found thee true to the
Catholic faith!--Not one word! So end the hopes of years. But at least
thy betrayer shall be with thee amongst the dead to-morrow.--Heretic!"
he said, turning fiercely to Carlos, "we are here to announce thy doom.
I came, with a heart full of pity and relenting, to offer counsel
and comfort, and such mercy as Holy Church still keeps for those
who return to her bosom at the eleventh hour. But now, I despair of
thee. Professed, impenitent, dogmatizing heretic, go thine own way to
everlasting fire!"
"To-morrow! Did you say to-morrow?" asked Carlos, standing motionless,
as one lost in thought.
The other Inquisitor took up the word.
"It is true," he said. "To-morrow the Church offers to God the
acceptable sacrifice of a solemn Act of Faith. And we come to announce
to thee thy sentence, well merited and long delayed--to be relaxed to
the secular arm as an obstinate heretic. But if even yet thou wilt
repent, and, confessing and deploring thy sins, supplicate restoration
to the bosom of the Church, she will so effectually intercede for thee
with the civil magistrate that the doom of fire will be exchanged for
the milder punishment of death by strangling."
Something like a faint smile played round the lips of Carlos; but he
only repeated, "To-morrow!"
"Yes, my son," said the Inquisitor, promptly; for he was a man who knew
his business well. He had come there to improve the occasion; and he
meant to do it. "No doubt it seems to thee a sudden blow, and but a
brief space left thee for preparation. But, at the best, our life here
is only a span; 'Man that is born of a woman hath but a short time to
live, and is full of misery.'"
Carlos did not look as if he heard; he still stood lost in thought, his
head sunk upon his breast. But in another moment he raised it suddenly.
"To-morrow I shall be with Christ in glory!" he exclaimed, with a
countenance as radiant as if that glory were already reflected there.
Some faint feeling of awe and wonder touched the Inquisitor's heart,
and silenced him for an instant. Then, recovering himself, and falling
back for help upon wonted words of course, he said,--
"I entreat of you to think of your soul."
"I have thought of it long ago. I have given it into the safe keeping
of Christ my Lord. Therefore I think no more of it; I only think of
him."
"But have you no fear of the anguish--the doom of fire?"
"I have no fear," Carlos answered. And this was a great mystery, even
to himself. "Christ's hand will either lift me over it or sustain me
through it; which, I know not yet. And I am not careful; he will care."
"Men of noble lineage, such as you are--of high honour and stainless
name, such as you _were_," said the Inquisitor--"ofttimes dread shame
more than agony. You, who were called Alvarez de Meñaya, what think
_you_ of the infamy, the loathing of all men, the scorn and mockery of
the lowest rabble--the zamarra, the carroza?"
"I shall joyfully go forth with Him without the camp, bearing his
reproach."
"And stand at the stake beside a vile caitiff, a miserable muleteer,
convicted of the same crimes?"
"A muleteer? Juliano Hernandez?" Carlos questioned eagerly.
"The same."
A softer light played over the features of Carlos. Then he should see
that face once more--perhaps even grasp that hand! Truly God was giving
him everything he desired of him. He said,--
"I am glad to stand, here to the last, at the side of that faithful
soldier and servant of Christ. For when we go in there together, I dare
not hope to be so highly honoured as to take a place beside him."
At this point the prior broke in. "Señor and my brother, your words
are wasted. He is given over to the power of the evil one. Let us
leave him." And drawing his mantle round him, he turned to go, without
looking again towards Carlos.
But Carlos came forward. "Pardon me, my lord; I have a few words
yet to say to you;" and, stretching out his hand to detain him, he
unconsciously touched his arm with it.
The prior flung it off with a gesture of angry scorn. There was
contamination in that touch. "I have heard too many words from your
lips already," he said.
"To-morrow night my lips will be dust, my voice silent for ever. So you
may well bear with me for a little while to-day."
"Speak then; but be brief."
"It gives me the last pang I think to know on earth, to part thus from
you; for you have shown me true kindness. I owe you, not forgiveness as
an enemy, but gratitude as a sincere though mistaken friend. I shall
pray for you--"
"An impenitent heretic's prayers--"
"Will do my lord the prior no harm; and there may come a day when he
will not be sorry he had them."
There was a short pause. "Have you anything else to say?" asked the
prior rather more gently.
"Only one word, señor." He turned and looked at the dead. "I know you
loved him well. You will deal gently with his dust, will you not? A
grave is not much to ask for him. You will give it; I trust you."
The stern set face relaxed a little before that pleading look. "It is
_you_ who have sought to rob him of a grave," said the prior--"you who
have defamed him of heresy. But your testimony is invalid; and, as I
have said, I believe you not."
With this declaration of purely official disbelief, he left the room.
His colleague lingered a moment. "You plead for the senseless dust that
can neither feel nor suffer," he said; "you can pity that. How is it
you cannot pity yourself?"
"That which you destroy to-morrow is not myself. It is only my garment,
my tent. Yet even over that Christ watches. He can raise it glorious
from the ashes of the Quemadero as easily as from the church where the
bones of my fathers sleep. For I am his, soul and body--the purchase of
his blood. And why should it be a marvel in your eyes that I rejoice to
give my life for him who gave his own for me?"
"God grant thee even yet to die in his grace!" answered the Inquisitor,
somewhat moved. "I do not despair of thee. I will pray for thee, and
visit thee again to-night." So saying, he hastened after the prior.
For a season Carlos sat motionless, his soul filled to overflowing with
a calm, deep tide of awed and wondering joy. No room was there for any
thought save one--"I shall see His face; I shall be with Him for ever."
Over the Thing that lay between he could spring as joyously as a child
might leap across a brook to reach his father's outstretched hand.
At length his eye fell, perhaps by accident, on the little writing-book
which lay near. He drew it towards him, and having found out the place
where the last entry was made, wrote rapidly beneath it,--
"To depart and to be with Christ is far better. My beloved father
is gone to him in peace to-day. I too go in peace, though by a
rougher path, to-morrow. Surely goodness and mercy have followed me
all the days of my life, and I shall dwell in the house of the Lord
for ever.
"CARLOS ALVAREZ DE SANTILLANOS Y MENAYA."
And with a strange consciousness that he had now signed his name for
the last time, he carefully affixed to it his own especial "rubrica,"
or sign-manual.
Then came one thought of earth--only one--the last. "God, in his great
mercy, grant that my brother may be far away! I would not that he saw
my face to-morrow. For the pain and the shame can be seen of all; while
that which changes them to glory no man knoweth, save he that receiveth
it. But, wherever thou art, God bless thee, my Ruy!" And drawing the
book towards him again, he added, as if by a sudden impulse, to what he
had already written, "God bless thee, my Ruy!"
Soon afterwards the Alguazils arrived to conduct him back to the
Triana. Then, turning to his dead once more, he kissed the pale
forehead, saying, "Farewell, for a little while. Thou didst never taste
death; nor shall I. Instead of thee and me, Christ drank that cup."
And then, for the second time, the gate of the Triana opened to
receive Don Carlos Alvarez. At sunrise next morning its gloomy portals
were unlocked, and he, with others, passed forth from beneath their
shadow. Not to return again to that dark prison, there to linger
out the slow and solitary hours of grief and pain. His warfare was
accomplished, his victory was won. Long before the sun had arisen again
upon the weary blood-stained earth, a brighter sun arose for him who
had done with earth. All his desire was granted, all his longings were
fulfilled. He saw the face of Christ, and he was with Him for ever.
XLVI.
Is it too Late?
"Death upon his face
Is rather shine than shade;
A tender shine by looks beloved made:
He seemeth dying in a quiet place."
E.B. BROWNING.
The mountain-snow lay white around the old castle of Nuera; but
within there was light and warmth. Joy and gladness were there also,
"thanksgiving and the voice of melody;" for Doña Beatriz, graver and
paler than of old, and with the brilliant lustre of her dark eyes
subdued to a kind of dewy softness, was singing a cradle-song beside
the cot where her first-born slept.
The babe had just been baptized by Fray Sebastian. With a pleading,
wistful look had Dolores asked her lord, the day before, what name he
wished his son to bear. But he only answered, "The heir of our house
always bears the name of Juan." Another name was far dearer to memory;
but not yet could he accustom his lips to utter it, or his ear to bear
the sound.
Now he came slowly into the room, holding in his hand an unsealed
letter. Doña Beatriz looked up. "He sleeps," she said.
"Then let him sleep on, señora mia."
"But will you not look? See, how pretty he is! How he smiles in his
sleep! And those dear small hands--"
"Have their share in dragging me further than you wot of, my Beatriz."
Nay; what dost thou mean? Do not be grave and sad to-day--not to-day,
Don Juan."
"My beloved, God knows I would not cloud thy brow with a single care
if I could help it. Nor am I sad. Only we must think. Here is a letter
from the Duke of Savoy (and very gracious and condescending too),
inviting me to take my place once more in His Catholic Majesty's army."
"But you will not go? We are so happy together here."
"My Beatriz, I _dare_ not go. I would have to fight"--(here he broke
off, and cast a hasty glance round the room, from the habit of dreading
listeners)--"I would have to fight against those whose cause is just
the cause I hold dearest upon earth. I would have to deny my faith
by the deeds of every day. But yet, how to refuse and not stand
dishonoured in the eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I know
not."
"No dishonour could ever touch thee, my brave and noble Juan."
Don Juan's brow relaxed a little. "But that men should even _think_ it
did, is what I could not bear," he said. "Besides"--and he drew nearer
the cradle, and looked fondly down at the little sleeper--"it does not
seem to me, my Beatriz, that I dare bring up this child God has given
me to the bitter heritage of a slave."
"A slave!" repeated Doña Beatriz, almost with a cry. "Now Heaven help
us, Don Juan; are you mad? You, of noblest lineage--you, Alvarez de
Meñaya--to call your own first-born a slave!"
"I call any one a slave who dares not speak out what he thinks, and act
out what he believes," returned Don Juan sadly.
"And what is it that you would do then?"
"Would to God that I knew! But the future is all dark to me. I see not
a single step before me."
"Then, amigo mio, do not look before you. Let the future alone, and
enjoy the present, as I do."
"Truly that baby face would charm many a care away," said Juan, with
another fond glance at the sleeping child. "But a man _must_ look
before him, and a Christian man must ask what God would have him to do.
Moreover, this letter of the duke demands an answer, Yea or Nay."
"Señor Don Juan. I desire to speak with your Excellency," said the
voice of Dolores at the door.
"Come in, Dolores."
"Nay, señor, I want you here." This peremptory sharpness was very
unlike the wonted manner of Dolores.
Don Juan came forth immediately. Dolores signed to him to shut the
door. Then, not till then, she began,--"Señor Don Juan, two brethren
of the Society of Jesus have come from Seville, and are now in the
village."
"What then? Surely you do not fear that they suspect anything with
regard to us?" asked Juan, in some alarm.
"No; but they have brought tidings."
"You tremble, Dolores. You are ill. Speak--what is it?"
"They have brought tidings of a great Act of Faith, to be held at
Seville, upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city, but towards
the end of this month."
For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other's faces. Then
Dolores said, in an eager breathless whisper, "You will go, señor?"
Juan shook his head. "What you are thinking of Dolores, is a dream--a
vain, wild dream. Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God."
"But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us," said Dolores,
large tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
"It is true," Juan mused; "they may wreak their vengeance on the dust."
"And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them,
I, a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Seville and
back again."
Juan hesitated no longer. "_I go_" he said. "Dolores, seek Fray
Sebastian, and send him to me at once. Bid Jorge be ready with the
horses to start to-morrow at daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare Doña
Beatriz for my sudden departure."
* * * * *
Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard
to speak. No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightest
impression on his mind, or even to have been remembered by him.
But at last he drew near Seville. It was late in the evening, however,
and he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a village
eight or nine miles from their destination.
Suddenly Jorge cried out. "Look there, señor, the city is on fire."
Don Juan looked. A lurid crimson glow paled the stars in the southern
sky. With a shudder he bowed his head, and veiled his face from the
awful sight.
"That fire is _without the gate_," he said at last. "Pray for the souls
that are passing in anguish now."