Waiting.
"Our night is dreary, and dim our day,
And if thou turn thy face away,
We are sinful, feeble, and helpless dust,
And have none to look to and none to trust."--Hogg
Thus was Carlos roused from the dull apathy of forced inaction. With
the courage and energy that are born of hope, he made the few and simple
preparations for his flight that were in his power. He also visited as
many as he could of his afflicted friends, feeling that his ministry
among them was now drawing to a close.
He rejoined his uncle's family as usual at the evening meal. Don
Balthazar, the empleado, was not present at its commencement, but soon
came in, looking so much disturbed that his father asked, "What is
amiss?"
"There is nothing amiss, senor and my father," answered the young man,
as he raised a large cup of Manzanilla to his lips.
"Is there any news in the city?" asked his brother Don Manuel.
Don Balthazar set down the empty cup. "No great news," he answered. "A
curse upon those Lutheran dogs that are setting the place in an uproar."
"What! more arrests," said Don Manuel the elder. "It is awful. The
number reached eight hundred yesterday. Who is taken now?"
"A priest from the country, Doctor Juan Gonzalez, and a friar named
Olmedo. But that is nothing. They might take all the Churchmen in all
the Spains, and fling them into the lowest dungeons of the Triana for
me. It is a different matter when we come to speak of ladies--ladies,
too, of the first families and highest consideration."
A slight shudder, and a kind of forward movement, as if to catch what
was coming, passed round the table. But Don Balthazar seemed reluctant
to say more.
"Is it any of our acquaintances?" asked the sharp, high-pitched voice of
Dona Sancha at last.
"Every one is acquainted with Don Pedro Garcia de Xeres y Bohorques. It
is--I tremble to tell you--his daughter."
"_Which?_" cried Gonsalvo, in tones that turned the gaze of all on his
livid face and fierce eager eyes.
"St. Iago, brother! You need not look thus at me. Is it my fault?--It
is the learned one, of course, Dona Maria. Poor lady, she may well wish
now that she had never meddled with anything beyond her Breviary."
"Our Lady and all the saints defend us! Dona Maria in prison for
heresy--horrible! Who will be safe now?" the ladies exclaimed, crossing
themselves shudderingly.
But the men used stronger language. Fierce and bitter were the
anathemas they heaped upon heresy and heretics. Yet it is only just to
say that, had they dared, they might have spoken differently. Probably
in their secret hearts they meant the curses less for the victims than
for their oppressors; and had Spain been a land in which men might speak
what they thought, Gonzales de Munebraga would have been devoted to a
lower place in hell than Luther or Calvin.
Only two were silent. Before the eye of Carlos rose the sweet
thoughtful face of the young girl, as he had seen it last, radiant with
the faith and hope kindled by the sublime words of heavenly promise
spoken by Losada. But the sight of another face--still, rigid,
death-like--drove that vision away. Gonsalvo sat opposite to him at the
table. And had he never heard the strange story Dona Inez told him,
that look would have revealed it all.
Neither curse nor prayer passed the white lips of Gonsalvo. Not one of
all the bitter words, found so readily on slighter occasions, came now
to his aid. The fiercest outburst of passion would have seemed less
terrible to Carlos than this unnatural silence.
Yet none of the others, after the first moment, appeared to notice it.
Or if they did observe anything strange in the look and manner of
Gonsalvo, it was imputed to physical pain, from which he often suffered,
but for which he rejected, and even resented, sympathy, until at last it
ceased to be offered him. Having given what expression they dared to
their outraged feelings, they once more turned their attention to the
unfinished repast. It was not at all a cheerful meal, yet it was duly
partaken of, except by Gonsalvo and Carlos, both of whom left the table
as soon as they could without attracting attention.
Willingly would Carlos have endeavoured to console his cousin; but he
did not dare to speak to him, or even to allow him to guess that he saw
the anguish of his soul.
One day still remained to him before his flight. In the morning, though
not very early, he set out to finish his farewell visits to his friends.
He had not gone many paces from the house, when he observed a gentleman
in plain black clothing, with sword and cloak, look at him regardfully
as he passed. A moment afterwards the same person, having apparently
changed his mind as to the direction in which he wished to go, hurried
by him at a rapid pace; and with a murmured "Pardon, senor," thrust a
billet into his hand.
Not doubting that one of his friends had sent an emissary to warn him of
some danger, Carlos turned into one of the narrow winding lanes with
which the semi-oriental city abounds, and finding himself safe from
observation, cast a hasty glance at the billet.
His eye just caught the words, "His reverence the Lord Inquisitor--Don
Gonsalvo--after midnight--revelations of importance--strict secrecy."
What did it all mean? Did the writer wish to inform him that his cousin
intended betraying him to the Inquisition? He did not believe it. But
the sound of approaching footsteps made him thrust the paper hastily
away; and in another moment his sleeve was grasped by Gonsalvo.
"Give it to me," said his cousin in a breathless whisper.
"Give you what?"
"The paper that born idiot and marplot put into thy hands, mistaking
thee for me. Curse the fool! Did he not know I was lame?"
Carlos showed the note, still holding it. "Is this what you mean?" he
asked.
"You have read it! _Honourable_!" cried Gonsalvo, with a bitter sneer.
"You are unjust to me. It bears no address; and I could not suppose
otherwise than that it was intended for myself. However, I only read the
few disconnected words upon which my eye first chanced to fall."
The cousins stood gazing in each other's faces; as those might do that
meet in mortal combat, ere they close hand to hand. Each was pondering
whether the other was capable of doing him a deadly injury. Yet, after
all, each held, at the bottom of his heart, a conviction that the other
might be trusted.
Carlos, though he had the greater cause for apprehension, was the first
to come to a conclusion. Almost with a smile he handed the note to
Gonsalvo. "Whatever yon mysterious billet may mean to Don Gonsalvo," he
said, "I am convinced that he means no harm to any one bearing the name
of Alvarez de Menaya."
"You will never repent that word. And it is true--in the sense you
speak it," returned Gonsalvo, taking the paper from his hand. At that
moment he was irresolute whether to confide in Carlos or no. But the
touch of his cousin's hand decided him. It was cold and trembling. One
so weak in heart and nerve was obviously unfit to share the burden of a
brave man's desperate resolve.
Carlos went his way, firmly believing that Gonsalvo intended no ill to
him. But what then did he intend? Had he solicited the Inquisitor for
a private midnight interview merely to throw himself at his feet, and
with impassioned eloquence to plead the cause of Dona Maria? Were
"important revelations" only a blind to procure his admission?
Impossible! who, past the age of infancy, would kneel to the storm to
implore it to be still, or to the fire to ask it to subdue its rage?
Perhaps some dreamy enthusiast, unacquainted with the world and its
ways, might still be found sanguine enough for such a project, but
certainly not Don Gonsalvo Alvarez de Menaya.
Or had he a bribe to offer? Inquisitors, like other Churchmen, were
known to be subject to human frailties; of course they would not touch
gold, but, according to a well-known Spanish proverb, you were invited
to throw it into their cowls. And Munebraga could scarcely have fed his
numerous train of insolent retainers, decked his splendid barge with
gold and purple, and brought rare plants and flowers from every known
country to his magnificent gardens, without very large additions to the
acknowledged income of the Inquisitor-General's deputy. But, again, not
all the wealth of the Indies would avail to open the gates of the Triana
to an obstinate heretic, however it might modify the views of "his
Reverence" upon the merits of a _doubtful_ case. And even to procure a
few slight alleviations in the treatment of the accused, would have
required a much deeper purse than Gonsalvo's.
Moreover, Carlos saw that the young man was "bitter of soul;" ready for
any desperate deed. What if he meant to accuse _himself_. Amidst the
careless profanity in which he had been too wont to indulge, many a word
had fallen from his lips that might be contrary to sound doctrine in the
estimation of Inquisitors, comparatively lenient as they were to
_blasphemers_. But what possible benefit to Dona Maria would be gained
by his throwing himself into the jaws of death? And if it were really
his resolve to commit suicide, by way of ending his own miseries, he
could surely accomplish the act in a more direct and far less painful
manner.
Thus Carlos pondered; but in whatever way he regarded the matter, he
could not escape from the idea that his cousin intended some dangerous
or fatal step. Gonsalvo was too still, too silent. This was an evil
sign. Carlos would have felt comparatively easy about him had he made
him shrink and shudder by an outburst of the fiercest, most indignant
curses. For the less emotion is wasted in expression, the more remains,
like pent-up steam, to drive the engine forward in its course. Moreover,
there was an evil light in Gonsalvo's eye; a gleam like that of hope,
but hope that was certainly not kindled from above.
Although the very crisis of his own fate was now approaching, and every
faculty might have had full occupation nearer home, Carlos was haunted
perpetually by the thought of his cousin. It continued to occupy him
not only during his visits to his friends, but afterwards in the
solitude and silence of his own apartment. We all know the strange
perversity with which, in times of suspense and sorrow, the mind will
sometimes run riot upon matters irrelevant, and even apparently trivial.
With slow footsteps the hours stole on; miserable hours to Carlos,
except in so far as he could spend them in prayer, now his only resource
and refuge. After pleading for himself, for Juan, for his dear
imprisoned brethren and sisters, he named Gonsalvo; and was led most
earnestly to implore God's mercy for his unhappy cousin. As he thought
of his misery, so much greater than his own; his loneliness, without God
in the world; his sorrow, without hope,--his pleading grew impassioned.
And when at last he rose from his knees, it was with that sweet sense
that God would hear--nay, that he _had_ heard--which is one of the
mysteries of the new life, the precious things that no man knoweth save
he that receiveth them.
Then, believing it was nearly midnight, he quickly finished his simple
preparations, took his guitar (which had now lain unused for a long
time), and sallied forth from his chamber.