CHAPTER XIII.
The first day of March.
For six months I have added nothing to this record; though time andagain I have taken up my pen to write, and then laid it by, with no markupon the fresh page. Can heartache be written down in words? Canloneliness and longing,--the desolation of one who has no human creatureon whom to lavish love and care,--the dull misery that is known only tothose whose best beloved are suffering the worst woes of this woefullife,--can all these be told? Ah, no! one can only feel them--bearthem--and be crushed by them.
If it had not been for the good old dame, I know not what would havebecome of me. Many a day and many a night I have clung to her for hours,weeping--crying aloud, "I cannot bear it! I cannot!" What choice had Ibut to bear it? And tears cannot flow forever; the calm of utterweariness succeeds.
'Tis not that I have been ill treated. I am well housed, and daintilyclothed and fed. Unless Melinza--or some other guest--is present, I sitat the Governor's own table. His wife makes of me something between acompanion and a plaything: one moment I have to bear with her capriciouskindness; the next, I am teased or driven away from her with as littlecourtesy as she shows to the noble hound that follows her like her ownshadow.
Until lately I have seen little of Melinza. Early in the winter he wentaway to the Habana and remained absent two months, during which time Ihad more peace of mind than I have known since first we came here. Butsince his return he has tried in various ways to force himself into mypresence; and Dona Orosia,--who could so easily shield me if shechose,--before she comes to my relief, permits him to annoy me until Iam roused to the point of passionate repulse. One could almost think sheloves to see me suffer--unless it is the sight of his discomfiture thataffords her such satisfaction.
But all of this I could endure if only my dear love were free! I haveheard that he is ill. It may not be true,--God grant that it is not!Still, though the rumour came to me by devious ways, and through oldBarbara's lips at last (and she is ever prone to think the worst), it ismore than possible! I, myself, have suffered somewhat from this longconfinement; and in how much worse case is he!
I have tried to occupy myself, that I may keep my thoughts from dwellingforever on our unhappy state. In the past six months I have so farmastered the Spanish tongue that now I can converse in it with more easethan in the French. The Governor declares that I have the trueintonation; and even Dona Orosia admits that I have shown some aptitude.I care nothing for it as a mere accomplishment; but I hope that theknowledge may be of use if ever we attempt escape. (Though what chanceof escape is there when Mr. Rivers is within stone walls and I have nomeans of even holding converse with Mr. Collins?)
I have one other accomplishment that has won me more favour with theGovernor's wife than aught else. She discovered, one day, that I havesome skill with the lute, and a voice not lacking in sweetness; and nowshe will have me sing to her by the hour until my throat is weary and Ihave to plead for rest.
I had, recently, a conversation with her that has haunted me every hoursince; for it showed me a side of her nature that I had not seen before,and that leads me to think that under her caprice and petulance there isa deep purpose hidden.
I had exhausted my list of songs, and as she still demanded more Ibethought me of a curious old ballad I had heard many years ago. The aireluded me for some while; but my fingers, straying over the strings,fell suddenly into the plaintive melody; with it, the words too cameback to me.
I bade my love fareweel, wi' tears; He bade fareweel to me. "How sall I pass the lang, lang years?" "I maun be gane," quo' he.
The tear-draps frae mine een did rin Like water frae a spring; But while I grat, my love gaed in To feast and reveling!
The tear-draps frae mine een did start Salt as the briny tide: Sae sair my grief, sae fu' my heart, I wept a river wide.
Adoon that stream my man did rove, And crossed the tearfu' sea. O whaur'll I get a leal true love To bide at hame wi' me?
The lang, lang years they winna pass; My lord is still awa'. Mayhap he loves a fairer lass-- O wae the warst ava!
How sall I wile my lover hame? I'll drink the tearfu' seas! My red mou' to their briny faem, I'll drain them to the lees!
Then gin he comes na hameward soon His ain true love to wed, I'll kilt my claes and don my shoon And cross the sea's dry bed.
"Oh in thine heart, my love, my lord, Mak' room, mak' room for me; Or at thy feet, by my true word, Thy lady's grave sall be!"
"A melancholy air, yet with somewhat of a pleasing sadness in its minorcadences," commented Dona Orosia when I had ceased. "Translate me thewords, an your Spanish is sufficient."
"That it is not, I fear," was my reply, "and the task is beyond me forthe further reason that the song is not even English, but in a dialectof the Scots. 'Tis only the plaint of a poor lady whose mind seems tohave gone astray in her long waiting for a faithless lover"--and I gaveher the sense of the verses as best I could.
"Nay," said the Spanish woman, with a singular smile. "She hath more witthan you credit her with. You mark me, the flood of a woman's tears willbear a man further than a mighty river, and her sighs waft him away morespeedily than the strongest gale. And once he has gone, taking with himsuch a memory of her, 'twould be far easier for her to drink the oceandry than to wile him home. For let a man but suspect that a woman_could_ break her heart for him, and he----is more than content to lether do it!"
She paused; but I made no answer, having none upon my tongue. Presentlyshe added: "When once a woman has the folly to plead for herself, inthat moment she murders Love; and every tear she sheds thereafterbecomes another clod upon his grave. There remains but one thing for herto do----"
"Herself to die!" I murmured.
"Nay, child! To live and be revenged!" She turned a flushed face towardme; and, though the water stood in her eyes, they were hard and angry."To be revenged! To plot and to scheme; to bide her time patiently; tostudy his heart's desire, and to foster it; and then----"
"And then?" I questioned softly, with little shivers of repulsionchilling me from head to foot.
"_To rob him of it._"
The words were spoken deliberately, in a voice that was resonant andslow. 'Twas not like the outburst of a moment's impulse--the suddenjangling of a harpstring rudely touched; it was rather with the fatefulemphasis of a clock striking the hour, heralded by a premonitoryquiver--a gathering together of inward forces that had waited throughlong moments for this final utterance.
What manner of woman was this? I caught my breath with a littleshuddering cry.
Dona Orosia turned quickly.
"Go! Leave me!" she cried. "Do you linger? Can I never be rid of you?Out of my sight! I would have a moment's respite from your great eyesand your white face. Go!"
And I obeyed her.
Margaret Tudor: A Romance of Old St. Augustine Page 13
