"So, the All-Great were the all-loving too--
So, through the thunder comes a human voice,
Saying, O heart I made, a heart beats here!
Face my hands fashioned, see it in myself!
Thou hast no power, nor mayest conceive of mine;
But love I gave thee with myself to love,
And thou must love me who have died for thee!"--R. Browning
Three silent months stole away in the old castle of Nuera. No outward
event affecting the fortunes of its inmates marked their progress. And
yet they were by far the most important months Don Carlos had ever seen,
or perhaps would ever see. They witnessed a change in him, mysterious
in its progress but momentous in its results. An influence passed over
him, mighty as the wind in its azure pathway, but, like it, visible only
by its effects; no man could tell "whence it cometh or whither it
goeth."
Again it was early morning, a bright Sunday morning in September.
Already Carlos stood prepared to go forth. He had quite discarded his
student's habit, and was dressed like any other young nobleman, in a
doublet and short cloak of Genoa velvet, with a sword by his side. His
Breviary was in his hand, however, and he was on the point of taking up
his hat when Dolores entered the room, bearing a cup of wine and a
manchet of bread.
Carlos shook his head, saying, "I intend to communicate. And you,
Dolores," he added, "are you not also going to hear mass?"
"Surely, senor; we will all attend our duty. But there is still time to
spare; your worship sets us an example in the matter of early rising."
"It were shame to lose such fair hours as these. Prithee, Dolores, and
lest I forget, hast thou something savoury in the house for dinner!"
"Glad I am to hear you ask, senor. Hitherto it has seemed alike to jour
Excellency whether they served you with a pottage of lentils or a stew
of partridges. But since Diego had the good fortune to kill that buck
on Wednesday, we are better than well provided. Your worship shall dine
on roast venison to-day."
"That will do. And if thou wouldst add some of the batter ware, in
which thou art so skilful, it would be better still; for I intend to
bring home a guest."
"Now, the Saints help me, that is news! Without meaning offence, your
worship might have told me before. Any noble caballero coming to these
parts to visit you must needs have bed as well as board found him. And
how can I, in three hours, more or less--"
"Nay, be not alarmed, Dolores; no stranger is coming here. Only I wish
to bring the cura home to dinner."
Even the self-restrained Dolores could not repress an exclamation of
surprise. For both the brothers had been accustomed to regard the
ignorant vulgar cura of the neighbouring village with unmitigated
dislike and contempt. In old times Dolores herself had sometimes tried
to induce them to show him some trifling courtesies, "for their soul's
health." They were willing enough to send "that beggar"--as Don Juan
used to call him--presents of meat or game when they could, but these
they would not have grudged to their worst enemy. To converse with him,
or to seat him at their table, was a very different matter. He was "no
fit associate for noblemen," said the boys; and Dolores, in her heart,
agreed with them. She looked at her young master to see whether he were
jesting.
"He likes a good dinner," Carlos added quietly. "Let us for once give
him one."
"In good faith, Senor Don Carlos, I cannot tell what has come to you.
You must be about doing penance for your sins, though I will say no
young gentleman of your years has fewer to answer for. Still, to please
your whim, the cura shall eat the best we have, though beans and bacon
would be more fitting fare for him."
"Thank you, mother Dolores," said Carlos kindly. "In truth, neither Don
Juan nor I had ever whim yet you did not strive to gratify."
"And who would not do more than that for so pleasant and kind a young
master?" thought Dolores, as she withdrew to superintend the cooking
operations. "God's blessing and Our Lady's rest on him, and in sooth I
think they do. Three months ago he came here looking like a corpse out
of the grave, and fitter, as it seemed to me, to don his shroud than his
priest's frock. But the free mountain air wherein he was born is
bringing back the red to his cheek and the light to his eye, thank the
holy Saints. Ah, if his lady mother could only see her gallant sons
now!"
Meanwhile Don Carlos leisurely took his way down the hill. Having
abundance of time to spare, he chose a solitary, devious path through
the cork-trees and the pasture land belonging to the castle. His heart
was alive to every pleasant sight and sound that met his eye and ear;
although, or rather because, a low, sweet song of thankfulness was all
the while chanting itself within him.
During his solitary walk he distinctly realized for the first time the
stupendous change that had passed over him. For such changes cannot be
understood or measured until afterwards, perhaps not always then.
Drawing from his pocket Juliano's little book, he clasped it in both
hands. "_This_, God be thanked, has done it all, under him. And yet,
at first, it added to my misery a hundred-fold." Then his mind ran back
to the dreary days of helpless, almost hopeless wretchedness, when he
first began its perusal. Much of it had then been quite unintelligible
to him; but what he understood had only made his darkness darker still.
He who had but just learned from that stern teacher, Life, the meaning
of sorrow, learned from the pages of his book the awful significance of
that other word, Sin. Bitter hours, never to be remembered without a
shudder, were those that followed. Already prostrate on the ground
beneath the weight of his selfish sorrow for the love that might never
be his, cruel blows seemed rained upon him by the very hand to which he
turned to lift him up. "All was his own fault," said conscience. But
had conscience, enlightened by his book, said no more, he could have
borne it. It was a different thing to recognize that all was his own
sin--to feel more keenly every day that the whole current of his
thoughts and affections was set in opposition to the will of God as
revealed in that book, and illustrated in the life of him of whom it
told.
But this sickness of heart, deadly though it seemed, was not unto death.
The Word had indeed proved a mirror, in which he saw his own face
reflected with the lines and colours of truth. But it had a farther use
for him. As he did not fling it away in despair, but still gazed on, at
length he saw in its clear depths another Face--a Face radiant with
divine majesty, yet beaming with tender love and pity. He whom the
mirror thus gave back to him had been "not far" from him all his life;
had been standing over against him, watching and waiting for the moment
in which to reveal himself. At last that moment came. He looked up
from the mirror to the real Face; from the Word to him whom the Word
revealed. He turned himself and said unto him, "Rabboni, which is to
say. My Master." He laid his soul at his feet in love, in trust, in
gratitude. And he knew then, not until then, that this was the "coming"
to him, the "believing" on him, the receiving him, of which He spoke as
the condition of life, of pardon, and of happiness.
From that hour he possessed life, he knew himself forgiven, he was
happy. This was no theory, but a fact--a fact which changed all his
present and was destined to change all his future.
He longed to impart the wonderful secret he had found. This longing
overcame his contempt for the cura, and made him seek to win him by
kindness to listen to words which perhaps might open for him also the
same wonderful fountain of joy.
"Now I am going to worship my Lord, afterwards I shall speak of him," he
said, as he crossed the threshold of the little village church.
In due season the service was over. Its ceremonies did not pain or
offend Carlos in any way; he took part in them with much real devotion,
as acts of homage paid to his Lord. Still, if he had analyzed his
feelings (which he did not), he would have found them like those of a
king's child, who is obliged, on days of courtly ceremonial, to pay his
father the same distant homage as the other peers of the realm, and yet
knows that all this for him is but an idle show, and longs to throw
aside its cumbrous pomp, and to rejoice once more in the free familiar
intercourse which is his habit and his privilege. But that the
ceremonial itself could be otherwise than pleasing to his King, he had
not the most distant suspicion.
He spoke kindly to the priest, and inquired by name after all the sick
folk in the village, though in fact he knew more about them himself by
this time than did Father Tomas.
The cura's heart was glad when the catechism came to a termination so
satisfactory as an invitation to dine at the castle. Whatever the fare
might be--and his expectations were not extravagantly high--it could
scarce fail to be an improvement on the olla of which he had intended to
make his Sunday repast. Moreover, one favour from the castle might be
the earnest of others; and favours from the castle, poor though its
lords might be, were not to be despised. Nor was he ill at ease in the
society of an accomplished gentleman, as a man just a little better bred
would probably have been. A wealthy peasant's son, and with but scanty
education, Father Tomas was so hopelessly vulgar that he never once
imagined he was vulgar at all.
Carlos bore as patiently as he could with his coarse manners, and
conversation something worse than commonplace. Not until the repast was
concluded did he find an opportunity of bringing forward the topic upon
which he longed to speak. Then, with more tact than his guest could
appreciate, he began by inquiring--as one himself intended for the
priesthood might naturally do--whether he could always keep his thoughts
from wandering while he was celebrating the holy mysteries of the faith.
Father Tomas crossed himself, and answered that he was a sinner like
other men, but that he tried to do his duty to our holy Mother Church to
the best of his ability.
Carlos remarked, that unless we ourselves know the love of God by
experience we cannot love him, and that without love there is no
acceptable service.
"Most true, senor," said the priest, turning his eyes upwards. "As the
holy St. Augustine saith. Your worship quotes from him, I believe."
"I have quoted nothing," said Carlos, beginning to feel that he was
speaking to the deaf; "but I know the words of Christ." And then he
spoke, out of a full heart, of Christ's work for us, of his love to us,
and of the pardon and peace which those receive that trust him.
But his listener's stolid face betrayed no interest, only a vague
uneasiness, which increased as Carlos proceeded. The poor parish cura
began to suspect that the clever young collegian meant to astonish and
bewilder him by the exhibition of his learning and his "new ideas."
Indeed, he was not quite sure whether his host was eloquently enlarging
all the time upon Catholic truths, or now and then mischievously
throwing out a few heretical propositions, in order to try whether he
would have skill enough to detect them. Naturally, he did not greatly
relish this style of entertainment. Nothing could be got from him save
a cautious, "That is true, senor," or, "Very good, your worship;" and as
soon as his notions of politeness would permit, he took his leave.
Carlos marvelled greatly at his dulness; but soon dismissed him from his
mind, and took his Testament out to read under the shade of the
cork-trees. Ere long the light began to fade, but he sat there still in
the fast deepening twilight. Thoughts and fancies thronged upon his
mind; and dreams of the past sought, as even yet they often did, to
reassert their supremacy over his heart. One of those apparently
unaccountable freaks of memory, which we all know by experience, brought
back to him suddenly the luscious perfume of the orange-blossoms, called
by the Spaniards the azahar. Such fragrance had filled the air, and
such flowers had been strewed upon his pathway, when last he walked with
Donna Beatrix in the fairy gardens of the Alcazar of Seville.
Keen was the pang that shot through his heart at the remembrance. But
it was conquered soon. As he went in-doors he repeated the words he had
just been reading, "'He that cometh unto me shall never hunger; he that
believeth on me shall never thirst.' And _this_ hunger of the soul, as
well is every other, He can stay. Having him, I have all things.
"El Dorado
Yo he trovado."
Father, dear, unknown father, I have round the golden country. Not in
the sense thou didst fondly seek, and I as fondly dream to find it. Yet
the only true land of gold I have found indeed--the treasure unfailing,
the inheritance incorruptible, undented and that fadeth not away,
reserved in heaven for me."