XXV.
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. Withthe courage and energy that are born of hope, he made the few and simplepreparations for his flight that were in his power. He also visited asmany as he could of his afflicted friends, feeling that his ministryamong them was now drawing to a close.
He rejoined his uncle's family as usual at the evening meal. DonBalthazar, the empleado, was not present at its commencement, but sooncame in, looking so much disturbed that his father asked, "What isamiss?"
"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. "Acurse upon those Lutheran dogs that are setting the place in an uproar."
"What! more arrests," said Don Manuel the elder. "It is awful. Thenumber reached eight hundred yesterday. Who is taken now?"
"A priest from the country, Doctor Juan Gonzalez, and a friar namedOlmedo. But that is nothing. They might take all the Churchmen in allthe Spains, and fling them into the lowest dungeons of the Triana forme. 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 whatwas coming, passed round the table. But Don Balthazar seemed reluctantto say more.
"Is it any of our acquaintances?" asked the sharp, high-pitched voice ofDona Sancha at last.
"Every one is acquainted with Don Pedro Garcia de Xeres y Bohorques. Itis--I tremble to tell you--his daughter."
"_Which?_" cried Gonsalvo, in tones that turned the gaze of all on hislivid face and fierce eager eyes.
"St. Iago, brother! You need not look thus at me. Is it my fault?--Itis the learned one, of course, Dona Maria. Poor lady, she may well wishnow that she had never meddled with anything beyond her Breviary."
"Our Lady and all the saints defend us! Dona Maria in prison forheresy--horrible! Who will be safe now?" the ladies exclaimed, crossingthemselves shudderingly.
But the men used stronger language. Fierce and bitter were theanathemas they heaped upon heresy and heretics. Yet it is only just tosay that, had they dared, they might have spoken differently. Probablyin their secret hearts they meant the curses less for the victims thanfor their oppressors; and had Spain been a land in which men might speakwhat they thought, Gonzales de Munebraga would have been devoted to alower place in hell than Luther or Calvin.
Only two were silent. Before the eye of Carlos rose the sweetthoughtful face of the young girl, as he had seen it last, radiant withthe faith and hope kindled by the sublime words of heavenly promisespoken by Losada. But the sight of another face--still, rigid,death-like--drove that vision away. Gonsalvo sat opposite to him at thetable. 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 ofall the bitter words, found so readily on slighter occasions, came nowto his aid. The fiercest outburst of passion would have seemed lessterrible 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 ofGonsalvo, it was imputed to physical pain, from which he often suffered,but for which he rejected, and even resented, sympathy, until at last itceased to be offered him. Having given what expression they dared totheir outraged feelings, they once more turned their attention to theunfinished repast. It was not at all a cheerful meal, yet it was dulypartaken of, except by Gonsalvo and Carlos, both of whom left the tableas soon as they could without attracting attention.
Willingly would Carlos have endeavoured to console his cousin; but hedid not dare to speak to him, or even to allow him to guess that he sawthe anguish of his soul.
One day still remained to him before his flight. In the morning, thoughnot 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 gentlemanin plain black clothing, with sword and cloak, look at him regardfullyas he passed. A moment afterwards the same person, having apparentlychanged his mind as to the direction in which he wished to go, hurriedby him at a rapid pace; and with a murmured "Pardon, senor," thrust abillet into his hand.
Not doubting that one of his friends had sent an emissary to warn him ofsome danger, Carlos turned into one of the narrow winding lanes withwhich the semi-oriental city abounds, and finding himself safe fromobservation, cast a hasty glance at the billet.
His eye just caught the words, "His reverence the Lord Inquisitor--DonGonsalvo--after midnight--revelations of importance--strict secrecy."What did it all mean? Did the writer wish to inform him that his cousinintended betraying him to the Inquisition? He did not believe it. Butthe sound of approaching footsteps made him thrust the paper hastilyaway; 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, mistakingthee for me. Curse the fool! Did he not know I was lame?"
Carlos showed the note, still holding it. "Is this what you mean?" heasked.
"You have read it! _Honourable_!" cried Gonsalvo, with a bitter sneer.
"You are unjust to me. It bears no address; and I could not supposeotherwise than that it was intended for myself. However, I only read thefew disconnected words upon which my eye first chanced to fall."
The cousins stood gazing in each other's faces; as those might do thatmeet in mortal combat, ere they close hand to hand. Each was ponderingwhether the other was capable of doing him a deadly injury. Yet, afterall, each held, at the bottom of his heart, a conviction that the othermight be trusted.
Carlos, though he had the greater cause for apprehension, was the firstto come to a conclusion. Almost with a smile he handed the note toGonsalvo. "Whatever yon mysterious billet may mean to Don Gonsalvo," hesaid, "I am convinced that he means no harm to any one bearing the nameof Alvarez de Menaya."
"You will never repent that word. And it is true--in the sense youspeak it," returned Gonsalvo, taking the paper from his hand. At thatmoment he was irresolute whether to confide in Carlos or no. But thetouch of his cousin's hand decided him. It was cold and trembling. Oneso weak in heart and nerve was obviously unfit to share the burden of abrave man's desperate resolve.
Carlos went his way, firmly believing that Gonsalvo intended no ill tohim. But what then did he intend? Had he solicited the Inquisitor fora private midnight interview merely to throw himself at his feet, andwith 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 toimplore it to be still, or to the fire to ask it to subdue its rage?Perhaps some dreamy enthusiast, unacquainted with the world and itsways, might still be found sanguine enough for such a project, butcertainly not Don Gonsalvo Alvarez de Menaya.
Or had he a bribe to offer? Inquisitors, like other Churchmen, wereknown to be subject to human frailties; of course they would not touchgold, but, according to a well-known Spanish proverb, you were invitedto throw it into their cowls. And Munebraga could scarcely have fed hisnumerous train of insolent retainers, decked his splendid barge withgold and purple, and brought rare plants and flowers from every knowncountry to his magnificent gardens, without very large additions to theacknowledged income of the Inquisitor-General's deputy. But, again, notall the wealth of the Indies would ava
il to open the gates of the Trianato an obstinate heretic, however it might modify the views of "hisReverence" upon the merits of a _doubtful_ case. And even to procure afew slight alleviations in the treatment of the accused, would haverequired a much deeper purse than Gonsalvo's.
Moreover, Carlos saw that the young man was "bitter of soul;" ready forany desperate deed. What if he meant to accuse _himself_. Amidst thecareless profanity in which he had been too wont to indulge, many a wordhad fallen from his lips that might be contrary to sound doctrine in theestimation of Inquisitors, comparatively lenient as they were to_blasphemers_. But what possible benefit to Dona Maria would be gainedby his throwing himself into the jaws of death? And if it were reallyhis resolve to commit suicide, by way of ending his own miseries, hecould surely accomplish the act in a more direct and far less painfulmanner.
Thus Carlos pondered; but in whatever way he regarded the matter, hecould not escape from the idea that his cousin intended some dangerousor fatal step. Gonsalvo was too still, too silent. This was an evilsign. Carlos would have felt comparatively easy about him had he madehim shrink and shudder by an outburst of the fiercest, most indignantcurses. 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 everyfaculty might have had full occupation nearer home, Carlos was hauntedperpetually by the thought of his cousin. It continued to occupy himnot only during his visits to his friends, but afterwards in thesolitude and silence of his own apartment. We all know the strangeperversity with which, in times of suspense and sorrow, the mind willsometimes 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 resourceand refuge. After pleading for himself, for Juan, for his dearimprisoned brethren and sisters, he named Gonsalvo; and was led mostearnestly to implore God's mercy for his unhappy cousin. As he thoughtof his misery, so much greater than his own; his loneliness, without Godin the world; his sorrow, without hope,--his pleading grew impassioned.And when at last he rose from his knees, it was with that sweet sensethat God would hear--nay, that he _had_ heard--which is one of themysteries of the new life, the precious things that no man knoweth savehe that receiveth them.
Then, believing it was nearly midnight, he quickly finished his simplepreparations, took his guitar (which had now lain unused for a longtime), and sallied forth from his chamber.
The Spanish Brothers: A Tale of the Sixteenth Century Page 25
