"Oh, hearts that break and give no sign,
Save whitening lip and fading tresses;
Till death pours out his cordial wine,
Slow dropped from misery's crushing presses
If singing breath or echoing chord
To every hidden pang were given,
What endless melodies were poured,
As sad as earth, as sweet as heaven."--O. W. Holmes
A great modern poet has compared the soul of man to a pilgrim who passes
through the world staff in hand, never resting, ever pressing onwards to
some point as yet unattained, ever sighing wearily, "Alas! that _there_
is never _here_." And with deep significance adds his Christian
commentator, "In Christ _there_ is _here_."
He who has found Christ "is already at the goal." "For he stills our
innermost fears, and fulfils our utmost longings." "In him the dry
land, the mirage of the desert, becomes living water." "He who knows
him knows the reason of all things." Passing all along the ages, we
might gather from the silent lips of the dead such words as these,
bearing emphatic witness to what human hearts have found in him. Yet,
after all, we would come back to his own grand and simple words, as best
expressing the truth: "I am the bread of life;" "I will give you rest;"
"In me ye shall have peace."
With the peace which he gave there came to Carlos a strange new
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 "Senor 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, senor. 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, senor."
"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, senor; 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, senor, 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, senor, _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. Senor, 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, senor. 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, senor, 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, senor. 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
after wards 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, senor. 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 net work, 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 nay 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, senor. 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, senor. 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 nay 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, senor, with eyes so
like hers, or I cannot tell you more."
"Did she speak? Did she reveal anything to you?"
"_Nothing_, senor. 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, senor; 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, senor. 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, senor," 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, "Senor 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, senor, 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,
senor, 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, Senor Don Carlos--" and she paused and hesitated.
"Can I do anything for you?" said Carlos, in a kind, encouraging tone.
"Ay, senor, 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 tree 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.