"Senora and my cousin, I kiss your feet. Lend me a helping hand, and I
take the leap."
Dona Inez desired nothing better. Being a Spanish lady, she loved an
intrigue for its own sake; being a very kindly disposed lady, she loved
an intrigue for a benevolent object. With her active co-operation and
assistance, and her husband's connivance, it was quickly arranged that
Don Juan should carry off Dona Beatriz from their house to a little
country chapel in the neighbourhood, where a priest would be in
readiness to perform the solemn rite which should unite them for ever.
Thence they were to proceed at once to Nuera, Don Juan disguising
himself for the journey as the lady's attendant. Dona Inez did not
anticipate that her father and brothers would take any hostile steps
after the conclusion of the affair--glad though they might have been to
prevent it--since there was nothing which they hated and dreaded so much
as a public scandal.
All Juan's latent fire and energy woke up again to meet the peril and to
secure the prize. He was successful in everything; the plan had been
well laid, and was well and promptly carried out. And thus it happened,
that amidst December-snows he bore his beautiful bride home to Nuera in
triumph. If triumph it could be called, overcast by the ever-present
memory of the one who "was not," which rested like a deep shadow upon
all joy, and subdued and chastened it. Few things in life are sadder
than a great, long-expected blessing coming thus;--like a friend from a
foreign land whose return has been eagerly anticipated, but who, after
years of absence, meets us changed in countenance and in heart,
unrecognizing and unrecognized.
Dolores welcomed her young master and his bride with affection and
thankfulness. But he noticed that the dark hair, at the time of his
last visit still only threaded with silver, had grown white as the
mountain snows. In former days Dolores, could not have told which of
the noble youths, her lady's gallant sons, had been the dearer to her.
But now she knew full well. Her heart was in the grave with the boy she
had taken a helpless babe from his dying mother's arms. But, after all,
was he in the grave? This was the question which she asked herself day
by day, and many times a day. She was not quite so sure of the answer
as Senor Don Juan seemed to be. Since the day of the Auto, he had
assumed all the outward signs of mourning for his brother.
Fray Sebastian was also at Nuera, and proved a real help and comfort to
its inmates. His very presence served to shield the household from any
suspicions that might have been awakened with regard to their faith.
For who could doubt the orthodoxy of Don Juan Alvarez, while he not only
contributed liberally to the support of his parish church, but also kept
a pious Franciscan in his family, in the capacity of private chaplain?
Though it must be confessed that the Fray's duties were anything but
onerous; now, as in former days, he showed himself a man fond of quiet,
who for the most part held his peace, and let every one do what was
right in his own eyes.
He was now on far more cordial terms with Dolores than he had ever been
before. This was partly because he had learned that worse physical
evils than ollas of lean mutton, or cheese of goat's milk, _might_ be
borne with patience, even with thankfulness. But partly also because
Dolores now really tried to con suit his tastes and to promote his
comfort. Many a savoury dish "which the Fray used to like" did she
trouble herself to prepare; many a flask of wine from their diminishing
store did she gladly produce, "for the kind words that he spake to him
in his sorrow and loneliness."
In spite of the depressing influences around her, Dona Beatriz could not
but be very happy. For was not Don Juan hers, all her own, her own for
ever? And with the zeal love inspires, and the skill love imparts, she
applied herself to the task of brightening his darkened life. Not quite
without effect. Even from that stern and gloomy brow the shadows at
length began to roll away.
Don Juan could not speak of his sorrow. For weeks indeed after his
return to Nuera his brother's name did not pass his lips. Better had it
been otherwise, both for himself and for Dolores. Her heart, aching
with its own lonely anguish and its vague, dark surmisings, often longed
to know her young master's true innermost thought about his brother's
fate. But she did not dare to ask him.
At last, however, this painful silence was partially broken through.
One morning the old servant accosted her master with an air of some
displeasure. It was in the inner room within the hall. Holding in her
hand a little book, she said,--"May it please your Excellency to pardon
my freedom, but it is not well done of you to leave this lying open on
your table. I am a simple woman; still I am at no loss to know what and
whence it is. If you will not destroy it, and cannot keep it safe and
secret, I implore of your worship to give it to me."
Juan held out his hand for it. "It is dearer to me than any earthly
possession," he said briefly.
"It had need to be dearer than your life, senor, if you mean to leave it
about in that fashion."
"I have lost the right to say so much," Juan answered. "And yet,
Dolores--tell me, would it break your heart if I sold this place--you
know it is mortgaged heavily already--and quitted the country?"
Juan expected a start, if not a cry of surprise and dismay. That Alvarez
de Menaya should sell the inheritance of his fathers seemed indeed a
monstrous proposal. In the eyes of the world it would be an act of
insanity, if not a crime. What then would it appear to one who loved
the name of Santillanos y Menaya far better than her life?
But the still face of Dolores never changed. "Nothing would break my
heart _now_," she said calmly.
"You would come with us?"
She did not even ask _whither_. She did not care: all her thoughts were
in the past.
"That is of course, senor," she answered. "If I had but first assurance
of _one_ thing."
"Name it; and if I can assure you, I will."
Instead of naming it she turned silently away. But presently turning
again, she asked, "Will your Excellency please to tell me, is it that
book that is driving you into exile?"
"It is. I am bound to confess the truth before men; and that is
impossible here."
"But are you sure then that it is the truth?"
"Sure. I have read God's message both in the darkness and in the light
I have seen it traced in characters of blood--and fire."
"But--forgive the question, senor--does it make you happy?"
"Why do you ask?"
"Because, Senor Don Juan"--she spoke with an effort, but firmly, and
fixing her eyes on his face--"he who gave you yon book found therein
that which made him happy. I know it; he was here, and I watched him.
When he came first, he was ill, or else very sorrowful, I know not why.
But he learned from that book that God Almighty loved him, and that the
Lord and Saviour Christ was his friend; and then his sorrow passed away,
and his heart grew full of joy, so full that he must needs be telling
me--ay, and even that poor dolt of a cura down there in the
village--about the good news. And I think"--but here she stopped,
frightened at her own boldness.
"What think you?" asked Juan, with difficulty restraining his emotion.
"Well, Senor Don Juan, I think that if that good news be true, it would
not be so hard to suffer for it. Blessed Virgin! Could it be aught but
joy to me, for instance, to lie in a dark dungeon, or even to be hanged
or burned, if that could work out _his_ deliverance? There be worse
things in the world than pain or prisons. For where there's love,
senor---- Moreover, it comes upon me sometimes that the Lords
Inquisitors may have mistaken his case. Wise and learned they may be,
and good and holy they are, of course--'twere sin to doubt it--yet they
_may_ mistake sometimes. 'Twas but the other day, my old eyes growing
dim apace, that I took a blessed gleam of sunlight that had fallen on
yon oak table for a stain, and set to work to rub it off; the Lord
forgive me for meddling with one of the best of his works! And, for
aught we know, just so may they be doing, mistaking God's light upon the
soul for the devil's stain of heresy. But the sunlight is stronger than
they, after all."
"Dolores, you are half a Lutheran already yourself," answered Juan in
surprise.
"I, senor! The Lord forbid! I am an old Christian, and a good
Catholic, and so I hope to die. But if you must hear all the truth, I
would walk in a yellow sanbenito, with a taper in my hand, before I
would acknowledge that _he_ ever said one word or thought one thought
that was not Catholic and Christian too. All his crime was to find out
that the good Lord loved him, and to be happy on account of it. If that
be your religion also, Senor Don Juan, I have nothing to say against it.
And, as I have said, God granting me, in his great mercy, one assurance
first, I am ready to follow you and your lady to the world's end."
With these words on her lips she left the room. For a time Juan sat
silent in deep thought. Then he opened the Testament, and turned over
its leaves until he found the parable of the sower. "'Some fell upon
stony places,'" he read, "'where they had not much earth; and forthwith
they sprung up, because they had no deepness of earth: and when the sun
was up, they were scorched; and, because they had no root, they withered
away.' There," he said within himself, "in those words is written the
history of my life, from the day my brother confessed his faith to me in
the garden of San Isodro. God help me, and forgive my backsliding! But
at least it is not too late to go humbly back to the beginning, and to
ask him who alone can do it to break up the fallow ground."
He closed the book, walked to the window and looked out. Presently his
eye was attracted to those dear mystic words on the pane, which both the
brothers had loved and dreamed over from their childhood,--
"El Dorado
Yo he trovado."
And at that moment the sun was shining on them as brightly as it used to
do in those old days gone by for ever.
No vague dream of any good, foreshadowed by the omen to him or to his
house, crossed the mind of the practical Don Juan. But he seemed to
hear once more the voice of his young brother saying close beside him,
"Look, Ruy, the light is on our father's words." And memory bore him
back to a morning long ago, when some slight boyish quarrel had been
ended thus.
Over his stern, handsome face there passed a look that shaded and
softened it, and his eyes grew dim--dim with tears.
But just then Dona Beatriz, radiant from a morning walk, and with her
hands full of early spring flowers, tripped in, singing a Spanish
ballad,--
"Ye men that row the galleys,
I see my lady fair;
She gazes at the fountain
That leaps for pleasure there."
Beatrix was a child of the city; and, moreover, her life hitherto had
been an unloved and unloving one. Now her nature was expanding under
the wholesome influences of home life and home love, and of simple
healthful pleasures. "Look, Don Juan, what pretty things grow in your
fields here! I have never seen the like," she said, breaking off in her
song to exhibit her treasures.
Don Juan looked carelessly at them, lovingly at her. "I would fain hear
a morning hymn from those sweet, tuneful lips," he pleaded.
"Most willingly, amigo mio,--
'Sanctissima--'"
"Hush, my beloved; hush, I entreat of you." And laying his hand lightly
on her shoulder, he gazed in her face with a mixture of fond and tender
admiration and of gentle reproach difficult to describe. "_Not that_.
For the sake of all that lies between us and the old faith, not that.
Rather let us sing together,--
'Vexill Regis prodeunt.'
For you know that between us and our King there stands, and there needs
to stand, no human mediator. Do you not, my beloved?"
"I know that _you_ are right," answered Beatrix, still reading her faith
in Don Juan's eyes. "But we can sing afterwards, whatever you like, and
as much as you will. I pray you let us come forth now into the sunshine
together. Look, what a glorious morning it is!"