San Isodro Once More.
"And if with milder anguish now I bear
To think of thee in thy forsaken rest;
If from my heart be lifted the despair,
The sharp remorse with healing influence pressed.
It is that Thou the sacrifice hast blessed,
And filled my spirit, in its inmost cell,
With a deep chastened sense that all at last is well."--Hemans
The cloudless sky above him, the fresh morning air on his cheek, the
dew-drops on his feet, Don Juan walked along. The river--his own bright
Guadalquivir--glistened in the early sunshine; and soon his pathway led
him amidst the gray ruins of old Italica, while among the brambles that
half hid them, glittering lizards, startled by his footsteps, ran in and
out. But he saw nothing, felt nothing, save the passionate pain that
burned in his heart. During his interview with Fray Ricardo he had
been, practically and for the time, what the prior called him,
insane--mad with rage and hate. But now rage was dying out for the
present, and giving place to anguish.
Is the worst pang earth has to give that of witnessing the sufferings of
our beloved? Or is there yet one keener, more thrilling? That they
should suffer alone; no hand near to help, no voice to speak sympathy,
no eye to look "ancient kindness" on their pain. That they should
die--die in anguish--and still alone,--
"With eyes turned away,
And no last word to say."
Don Juan was now drinking that bitter cup to its very dregs. What the
young brother, his one earthly tie, had been to him, need not here be
told; and assuredly he could not have told it. He had been all his life
a thing to protect and shield--as the strong protect the weak, as
manhood shields womanhood and childhood. Had God but taken him with his
own right hand, Juan would have thought it a light matter, a sorrow
easily borne. But, instead, He stood afar off--He did not help; whilst
men, cruel as fiends from the bottomless pit, did their worst, their
very worst, upon him. And with refined self-torture he went through all
the horrible details, as far as he knew or could guess them. Nor did he
spare to stab his own heart with that keenest weapon of all--"It was
_for me_; for me he endured the Question." The cry of his brother's
anguish--anguish borne for him--seemed to sound in his ears and to haunt
him: he felt that it would haunt him evermore.
Of course, there was a well of comfort near, which a child's hand might
have pointed out to him: "All is over now; he suffers no longer--he is
at rest." But who ever stoops to drink from that well in the parching
thirst of the first hour of such a grief as his? In truth, all was over
for Carlos; but all was not over for Juan. He had to pass through his
dark hour as really as Carlos had passed through his.
Again the agony almost maddened him; again wild hatred and rage against
his brother's torturers rose and surged like a flood within him. And
with these were mingled thoughts, too nearly rebellious, of Him whom
that brother trusted so firmly and served so faithfully; as if he had
used his servant hardly, and forsaken him in his hour of sorest need.
He shrank with horror from every wayfarer he chanced to meet, imagining
that his eyes might have looked on his brother's suffering. But at last
he came unawares upon the gate of San Isodro. Left unbarred by some
accident, it yielded to his touch, and he entered the monastery grounds.
At that very spot, three years ago, the brothers parted, on the day that
Carlos avowed his change of faith. Yet not even that remembrance could
bring a tear to the hot and angry eyes of Juan. But just then he
happened to recollect the book he had received from the lay brother. He
took it from its place of concealment, and eagerly began to examine it.
It was almost filled with writing; but not, alas! from that beloved
hand. So he flung it aside in bitter disappointment. Then becoming
suddenly conscious of bodily weakness, he half sat down, half threw
himself on the ground. His vigorous frame and his strong nerves saved
him from swooning outright: he only lay sick and faint, the blue sky
looking black above him, and a strange, indistinct sound, as of many
voices, murmuring in his ears.
By-and-by he became conscious that some one was holding water to his
lips, and trying, though with an awkward, trembling hand, to loose his
doublet at the throat. He drank, shook off his weakness, and looked
about him. A very old man, in a white tunic and brown mantle, was
bending over him compassionately. In another moment he was on his feet;
and having briefly thanked the aged monk for his kindness, he turned his
face to the gate.
"Nay, my son," the old man interposed; "San Isodro is changed--changed!
Still the sick and weary never left its gates unaided; and they shall
not begin now--not now. I pray you come with me to the house, and
refresh and rest yourself there."
Juan was not reckless enough to refuse what in truth he sorely needed.
He entered the monastery under the guidance of poor old Fray Bernardo,
who had been passed by, perhaps in scorn, by the persecutors: and so,
after all, he had his wish--he should die and be buried in peace where
he had passed his life from boyhood to extreme old age. Yet there was
something sad in the thought that the storm that swept by had left
untouched the poor, useless, half-withered tree, while it tore down the
young and strong and noble oaks, the pride of the now desolated forest.
The few cowed and terrified monks who had been allowed to remain in the
convent received Don Juan with great kindness. They set food and wine
before him: food he could not touch, but wine he accepted with
thankfulness. And they almost insisted on his endeavouring to take some
rest; assuring him that when his servant and horses should arrive, they
would see them properly cared for, until such time as he might be able
to resume his journey.
His journey would not brook delay, as he knew full well. That his young
wife might not be a widow and his babe an orphan, he "charged his soul
to hold his body strengthened" for the work that both had to do. Back
to Nuera for these dear ones as swiftly as the fleetest horses would
bear him, then to Seville again, and on board the first ship he could
meet with bound for any foreign port,--would the term of grace assigned
him by the Inquisitor suffice for all this? Certainly not a moment
should be lost.
"I will rest for an hour," he said. "But I pray you, my fathers, do me
one kindness first. Is there a man here who witnessed--what was done
yesterday?"
A young monk came forward. Juan led him into the cell which had been
prepared for him to rest in, and leaning against its little window, with
his face turned away, he murmured one agitated question. Three words
comprised the answer,--
"_Calmly, silently, quickly._"
Juan's breast heaved and his strong frame trembled. After a long
interval he said, still without looking,--
"Now tell me of the others. Name him no more."
"No less than _eight_ ladies died the martyr's death," said the monk,
who cared not, before _this_ auditor, to conceal his own sentiments.
"One of them was Senora Maria Gomez; your Excellency probably knows her
story. Her three daughters and her sister died with her. When their
sentences were read, they embraced on the scaffold, and bade each other
farewell with tears. Then they comforted each other with holy words
about our Lord and his passion, and the home he was preparing for them
above."
Here the young monk paused for a few moments; then went on, his voice
still trembling: "There were, moreover, two Englishmen and a Frenchman,
who all died bravely. Lastly, there was Juliano Hernandez."
"Ah! tell me of him."
"He died as he had lived. In the morning, when brought out into the
court of the Triana, he cried aloud to his fellow-sufferers,--'Courage,
comrades! Now must we show ourselves valiant soldiers of Jesus Christ.
Let us bear faithful testimony to his truth before men, and in a few
hours we shall receive the testimony of his approbation before angels,
and triumph with him in heaven.' Though silenced, he continued
throughout the day to encourage his companions by his gestures. On the
Quemadero, he knelt down and kissed the stone upon which the stake was
erected; then thrust his head among the fagots to show his willingness
to suffer. But at the end, having raised his hands in prayer, one of
the attendant priests--Dr. Rodriguez--mistook the attitude for a sign
that he would recant, and made intercession with the Alguazils to give
him a last opportunity of speaking. He confessed his faith in a few
strong, brief words; and knowing the character of Rodriguez, told him he
thought the same himself, but hid his true belief out of fear. The angry
priest bade them light the pile at once. It was done; but the guards,
with kind cruelty, thrust the martyr through with their lances, so that
he passed, without much pain, into the presence of the Lord whom he
served as few have been honoured to do."
"And--Fray Constantino?" Juan questioned.
"He was not, for God took him. They had only his dust to burn. They
have sought to slander his memory, saying he raised his hand against his
own life. But we knew the contrary. It has reached our ears--I dare
not tell you how--that he died in the arms of one of our dear brethren
from this place--poor young Fray Fernando, who closed his eyes in peace.
It was from one of the dark underground cells of the Triana that he
passed straight to the glory of God."[#]
[#] At the Auto they produced his effigy, of the size of life, clad in
his canon's robe, and with the arms stretched out in the gesture he had
been wont to use in preaching; but it caused such a demonstration of
feeling among the people, that they were obliged hastily to withdraw it.
It was at this Auto that Maria Gonsalez was sentenced to receive two
hundred lashes, and to be imprisoned for ten years, for the kindnesses
she had shown the prisoners. An equally severe punishment was awarded
to the under-gaoler Herrera for the offence of having allowed a mother
and three daughters, who were imprisoned in separate cells, an interview
of half an hour; while the many cruelties and peculations of the
infamous Benevidio were only chastised by the loss of his situation and
lit advantages, and banishment from Seville.
"I thank you for your tidings," said Juan, slowly and faintly. "And now
I pray of you to leave me."
After a considerable time, one of the monks softly opened the door of
their visitor's cell. He sat on the pallet prepared for him, his head
buried in his hands.
"Senor," said the monk, "your servant has arrived, and begs you to
excuse his delay. It may be there are some instructions you wish him to
receive."
Juan roused himself with an effort.
"Yes," he said; "and I thank you. Will you add to your kindness by
bidding him immediately procure for us fresh horses, the best and
fleetest that can be had?" He sought his purse; but, remembering in a
moment what had become of it, drew a ring from his finger to supply its
loss. It was the diamond ring that the Sieur de Ramenais had given him.
A keen pang shot through his heart. "No, not that; I cannot part with
it." He took two others instead--old family jewels. "Bid him bring
these," he said, "to Isaac Ozorio, who dwells in La Juderia[#]--any man
there will show him the house; take for them whatever he will give him,
and therewith hire fresh horses--the best he can--from the posada where
he rested, leaving our own in pledge. Let him also buy provisions for
the way; for my business requires haste. I will explain all to you
anon."
[#] The Jewish Quarter of Seville.
While the monk did the errand, Don Juan sat still, gazing at the diamond
ring. Slowly there came back upon his memory the words spoken by Carlos
on the day when the sharp facets cut his hand, unfelt by him: "If He
calls me to suffer for him, he may give me such blessed assurance of his
love, that in the joy of it pain and fear will vanish."
Could it be possible He _had_ done this? Oh, for some token, to relieve
his breaking heart by the assurance that thus it had been! And yet,
wherefore seek a sign? Was not the heroic courage, the calm patience,
given to that young brother, once so frail and timid, as plain a token
of the sunlight of God's peace and presence as is the bow in the cloud
of the sun shining in the heavens? True; but not the less was his soul
filled with passionate longing for one word--only one word--from the
lips that were dust and ashes now. "If God would give me _that_," he
moaned, "I think I could weep for him."
It occurred to him then that he might examine the book more carefully
than he had done before. Don Juan, of late, had been no great reader,
except of the Spanish Testament. Instead of glancing rapidly through
the volume with a practised eye, he carefully began at the beginning and
perused several pages with diligence, and with a kind of compelled and
painful attention.
The writer of the diary with which the book seemed filled had not
prefixed his name. Consequently Juan, who was without a clue to the
authorship, saw in it merely the effusions of a penitent, with whose
feelings he had but little sympathy. Still, he reflected that if the
writer had been his brother's fellow prisoner, some mention of his
brother would probably reward his persevering search. So he read on;
but he was not greatly interested, until at length he came to one
passage which ran thus:--
"Christ and Our Lady forgive me, if it be a sin. Ofttimes, even by
prayer and fasting, I cannot prevent my thoughts from wandering to the
past. Not to the life I lived, and the part I acted in the great world,
for that is dead to me and I to it; but to the dear faces my eyes shall
never see again. My Costanza!"--("Costanza!" thought Juan with a start,
"that was my mother's name!")--"my wife! my babe! O God, in thy great
mercy, still this hungering and thirsting of the heart!"
Immediately beneath this entry was another. "_May_ 21. My Costanza, my
beloved wife, is in heaven. It is more than a year ago, but they did
not tell me till to-day. Does death only visit the free?"
Yet another entry caught the eye of Juan. "Burning heat to-day. It
would be cool enough in the halls of Nuera, on the breezy slope of the
Sierra Morena. What does my orphaned Juan Rodrigo there, I wonder?"
"Nuera! Sierra Morena! Juan Rodrigo!" reiterated the astonished
reader. What did it all mean? He was stunned and bewildered, so that
he had scarcely power left even to form a conjecture. At last it
occurred to him to turn to the other end of the book, if perchance some
name, affording a clue to the mystery, might be inscribed there.
And then he read, in another, well-known hand, a few calm words,
breathing peace and joy, "quietness and assurance for ever."
He pressed the loved handwriting to his lips, to his heart. He sobbed
over it and wept; blistering it with such burning tears as scarcely come
from a strong man's eyes more than once in a lifetime. Then, flinging
himself on his knees, he thanked God--God whom he had doubted, murmured
against, almost blasphemed, and who yet had been true to his
promise--true to his tried and suffering servant in the hour of need.
When he rose, he took up the book again, and read and reread those
precious words. All but the first he thought he could comprehend. "My
beloved father is gone to Him in peace." Would the preceding entries
throw any light upon _that_ saying!
Once more, with changed feelings and quickened perceptions, he turned
back to the records of the penitent's long captivity. Slowly and
gradually the secret they revealed unfolded itself before him. The
history of the last nine months of his brother's life lay clearly
traced; and the light it shed illumined another life also, longer,
sadder, less glorious than his.
One entry, almost the last, and traced with a trembling hand, he read
over and over, till his eyes grew too dim to see the words.
"He entreats of me to pray for my absent Juan, and to bless him. My
son, my first-born, whose face I know not, but whom he has taught me to
love, I do bless thee. All blessings rest upon thee--blessings of
heaven above, blessings of the earth beneath, blessings of the deep that
lieth under! But for _thee_, Carlos, what shall I say? I have no
blessing fit for thee--no word of love deep and strong enough to join
with that name of thine. Doth not He say, of whose tenderness thou
tellest me ours is but the shadow, 'He will _be silent_ in his love'?
But may he read my heart in its silence, and bless thee, and repay thee
when thou comest to thy home, where already thy heart is."
It might have been two hours afterwards, when the same friendly monk who
had narrated to Don Juan the circumstances of the Auto-da-fe, came to
apprise him that his servant had fulfilled his errand, and was waiting
with the horses.
Don Juan rose and met him. His face was sad; it would be a sad face
always; but there was in it a look as of one who saw the end, and who
knew that, however dark the way might be, the end was light everlasting.
"Look here, my friend," he said, for no concealment was necessary there;
truth could hurt no one. "See how wondrously God has dealt with me and
mine. Here is the record of the life and death of my honoured father.
For three-and-twenty years he lay in the Dominican monastery, a prisoner
for Christ's sake. And to my heroic martyr brother God has given the
honour and the joy of unravelling the mystery of his fate, and thus
fulfilling our youthful dream. Carlos has found our father!"
He went forth into the hall, and bade the other monks a grateful
farewell. Old Fray Bernardo embraced and blessed him with tears, moved
by the likeness, now discerned for the first time, between the stately
soldier and the noble and gentle youth, whose kindness to him, during
his residence at the monastery three years before, he well remembered.
Then Don Juan set his face towards Nuera, with patient endurance, rather
sad than stern, upon his brow, and in his heart "a grief as deep as life
or thought," but no rebellion, and no despair. Something like
resignation had come to him; already he could say, or at least try to
say, "Thy will be done." And he foresaw, as in the distance, far off
and faintly, a time when he might even be able to share in spirit the
joy of the crowned and victorious one, to whom, in the dark prison, face
to face with death, God had so wondrously given the desire of his heart,
and not denied him the request of his lips.