Is it too Late?
"Death upon his face
Is rather shine than shade;
A tender shine by looks beloved made:
He seemeth dying in a quiet place."--E. B. Browning.
The mountain-snow lay white around the old castle of Nuera; but within
there was light and warmth. Joy and gladness were there also,
"thanksgiving and the voice of melody;" for Dona Beatrix, graver and
paler than of old, and with the brilliant lustre of her dark eyes
subdued to a kind of dewy softness, was singing a cradle-song beside the
cot where her first-born slept.
The babe had just been baptized by Fray Sebastian. With a pleading,
wistful look had Dolores asked her lord, the day before, what name he
wished his son to bear. But he only answered, "The heir of our house
always bears the name of Juan." Another name was far dearer to memory;
but not yet could he accustom his lips to utter it, or his ear to bear
the sound.
Now he came slowly into the room, holding in his hand an unsealed
letter. Dona Beatriz looked up. "He sleeps," she said.
"Then let him sleep on, senora mia."
"But will you not look? See, how pretty he is! How he smiles in his
sleep! And those dear small hands--"
"Have their share in dragging me further than you wot of, my Beatriz."
"Nay; what dost thou mean? Do not be grave and sad to-day--not to-day,
Don Juan."
"My beloved, God knows I would not cloud thy brow with a single care if
I could help it. Nor am I sad. Only we must think. Here is a letter
from the Duke of Savoy (and very gracious and condescending too),
inviting me to take my place once more in His Catholic Majesty's army."
"But you will not go? We are so happy together here."
"My Beatriz, I _dare_ not go. I would have to fight"--(here he broke
off, and cast a hasty glance round the room, from the habit of dreading
listeners)--"I would have to fight against those whose cause is just the
cause I hold dearest upon earth, I would have to deny my faith by the
deeds of every day. But yet, how to refuse and not stand dishonoured in
the eyes of the world, a traitor and a coward, I know not."
"No dishonour could ever touch thee, my brave and noble Juan."
Don Juan's brow relaxed a little. "But that men should even _think_ it
did, is what I could not bear," he said. "Besides"--and he drew nearer
the cradle, and looked fondly down at the little sleeper--"it does not
seem to me, my Beatriz, that I dare bring up this child God has given me
to the bitter heritage of a slave."
"A slave!" repeated Dona Beatriz, almost with a cry. "Now Heaven help
us, Don Juan; are you mad? You, of noblest lineage--you, Alvarez de
Menaya--to call your own first-born a slave!"
"I call any one a slave who dares not speak out what he thinks, and act
out what he believes," returned Don Juan sadly.
"And what is it that you would do then?"
"Would to God that I knew! But the future is all dark to me. I see not
a single step before me."
"Then, amigo mio, do not look before you. Let the future alone, and
enjoy the present, as I do."
"Truly that baby face would charm many a care away," said Juan, with
another fond glance at the sleeping child. "But a man _must_ look
before him, and a Christian man must ask what God would have him to do.
Moreover, this letter of the duke demands an answer, Yea or Nay."
"Senor Don Juan, I desire to speak with your Excellency," said the voice
of Dolores at the door.
"Come in, Dolores."
"Nay, senor, I want you here." This peremptory sharpness was very
unlike the wonted manner of Dolores.
Don Juan came forth immediately. Dolores signed to him to shut the
door. Then, not till then, she began,--"Senor Don Juan, two brethren of
the Society of Jesus have come from Seville, and are now in the
village."
"What then? Surely you do not fear that they suspect anything with
regard to us?" asked Juan, in some alarm.
"No; but they have brought tidings."
"You tremble, Dolores. You are ill. Speak--what is it?"
"They have brought tidings of a great Act of Faith, to be held at
Seville, upon a day not yet fixed when they left the city, but towards
the end of this month."
For a moment the two stood silent, gazing in each other's faces. Then
Dolores said, in an eager breathless whisper, "You will go, senor?"
Juan shook his head. "What you are thinking of, Dolores, is a dream--a
vain, wild dream. Long since, I doubt not, he rests with God."
"But if we had the proof of it, rest might come to us," said Dolores,
large tears gathering slowly in her eyes.
"It is true," Juan mused; "they may wreak their vengeance on the dust."
"And for the assurance that would give that nothing more was left them,
I, a poor woman, would joyfully walk barefoot from this to Seville and
back again."
Juan hesitated no longer. "_I go_," he said. "Dolores, seek Fray
Sebastian, and send him to me at once. Bid Jorge be ready with the
horses to start to-morrow at daybreak. Meanwhile, I will prepare Dona
Beatriz for my sudden departure."
Of that hurried winter journey, Don Juan was never afterwards heard to
speak. No one of its incidents seemed to have made the slightest
impression on his mind, or even to have been remembered by him.
But at last he drew near Seville. It was late in the evening, however,
and he had told his attendant they should spend the night at a village
eight or nine miles from their destination.