Quiet Days.
"I think that by-and-by all things
Which were perplexed a while ago
And life's long, vain conjecturings,
Will simple, calm, and quiet grow,
Already round about me, some
August and solemn sunset seems
Deep sleeping in a dewy dome,
And bending o'er a world of dreams."--Owen Meredith.
The penitent laid Carlos gently on his pallet (he still possessed a
measure of physical strength, and the worn frame was easy to lift); then
he knocked loudly on the door for help, as he had been instructed to do
in any case of need. But no one heard, or at least no one heeded him,
which was not remarkable, since during more than twenty years he had
not, on a single occasion, thus summoned his gaolers. Then, in utter
ignorance what next to do, and in very great distress, he bent over his
young companion, helplessly wringing his hands.
Carlos stirred at last, and murmured, "Where am I? What is it?" But
even before full consciousness returned, there came the sense, taught by
the bitter, experience of the last two years, that he must look within
for aid--he could expect none from any fellow-creature. He tried to
recollect himself. Some bewildering, awful joy had fallen upon him,
striking him to the earth. Was he free? Was he permitted to see Juan?
Slowly, very slowly, all grew clear to him. He half raised himself,
grasped the penitent's hand, and cried aloud, "_My father?_"
"Are you better, senor?" asked the old man with solicitude. "Do me the
favour to drink this wine."
"Father, my father! I am your son. I am Carlos Alvarez de Santillanos
y Menaya. Do you not understand me, father?"
"I do not understand you, senor," said the penitent, moving a little
away from him, with a mixture of dignified courtesy and utter amazement
in his manner strange to behold. "Who is it that I have the honour to
address?"
"O my father, I am your son--your very son Carlos!"
"I have never seen you till--ere yesterday."
"That is quite true; and yet--"
"Nay, nay," interrupted the old man; "you are speaking wild words to me.
I had but one boy--Juan--Juan Rodrigo. The heir of the house of Alvarez
de Menaya was always called Juan."
"He lives. He is Captain Don Juan now, the bravest soldier, and the
best, truest-hearted man on earth. How you would love him! Would you
could see him face to face! Yet no; thank God you cannot."
"My babe a captain in His Imperial Majesty's army!" said Don Juan, in
whose thoughts the great Emperor was reigning still.
"And I," Carlos continued, in a broken, agitated voice--"I, born when
they thought you dead--I, who opened my young eyes on this sad world the
day God took my mother home from all its sin and sorrow--I am brought
here, in his mysterious providence, to comfort you, after your long
dreary years of suffering."
"Your mother! Did you say your mother? My wife, _Costanza mia_. Oh,
let me see your face!"
Carlos raised himself to a kneeling attitude, and the old man laid his
hand on his shoulder, and gazed at him long and earnestly. At length
Carlos removed the hand, and drawing it gently upwards, placed it on his
head. "Father," he said, "you will love your son? you will bless him,
will you not? He has dwelt long amongst those who hated him, and never
spoke to him save in wrath and scorn, and his heart pines for human love
and tenderness."
Don Juan did not answer for a while; but he ran his fingers through the
soft fine hair. "So like hers," he murmured dreamily. "Thine eyes are
hers too--_zarca_.[#] Yes, yes; I do bless thee--But who am I to bless?
God bless thee, my son!"
[#] Blue; a word applied by the Spaniards only to blue eyes.
In the long, long silence that followed, the great convent bell rang
out. It was noon. For the first time for twenty years the penitent did
not hear that sound.
Carlos heard it, however. Agitated as he was, he yet feared the
consequences that might follow should the penitent omit any part of the
penance he was bound by oath to perform. So he gently reminded him of
it. "Father--" (how strangely sweet the name sounded!)--"father, at
this hour you always recite the penitential psalms. When you have
finished, we will talk together. I have ten thousand things to tell
you."
With the silent, unreasoning submission that had become a part of his
nature, the penitent obeyed; and, going to his usual station before the
crucifix, began his monotonous task. The fresh life newly awakened in
his heart and brain was far from being strong enough, as yet, to burst
the bonds of habit. And this was well. Those bonds were his safeguard;
but for their wholesome restraint, mind or body, or both, might have
been shattered by the tumultuous rush of new thoughts and feelings.
But the familiar Latin words, repeated without thought, almost without
consciousness, soothed the weary brain like a slumber.
Meanwhile, Carlos thanked God with a full heart. Here, then--_here_, in
the dark prison, the very abode of misery--had God given him the desire
of his heart, fulfilled the longing of his early years. Now the
wilderness and the solitary place were glad; the desert rejoiced and
blossomed as the rose. Now his life seemed complete, its end answering
its beginning; all its meaning lying clear and plain before him. He was
satisfied.
"Ruy, Ruy, I have found our father!--Oh, that I could but tell thee, my
Ruy!"--was the cry of his heart, though he forced his lips to silence.
Nor could the tears of joy, that sprang unbidden to his eyes, be
permitted to overflow, since they might perplex and trouble his
fellow-captive--_his father_.
He had still a task to perform; and to that task his mind soon bent
itself; perhaps instinctively taking refuge in practical detail from
emotions that might otherwise have proved too strong for his weakened
frame. He set himself to consider how best he could revive the past,
and make the present comprehensible to the aged and broken man, without
overpowering or bewildering him.
He planned to tell him, in the first instance, all that he could about
Nuera. And this he accomplished gradually, as he was able to bear the
strain of conversation. He talked of Dolores and Diego; described both
the exterior and interior of the castle; in fact, made him see again the
scenes to which his eye had been accustomed in past days. With special
minuteness did he picture the little room within the hall, both because
it was less changed since his father's time than the others, and because
it had been his favourite apartment "And on the window," he said, "there
were some words, written with a diamond, doubtless by your hand, my
father. My brother and I used to read them in our childhood; we loved
them, and dreamed many a wondrous dream about them. Do you not remember
them?"
But the old man shook his head.