FOOTNOTES:[14]Vide"Daybreak in Spain."
[14]Vide"Daybreak in Spain."
[14]Vide"Daybreak in Spain."
HHas the English señor never called to see me?" was Alcala's abrupt question to Teresa as she came into his room.
Has the English señor never called to see me?" was Alcala's abrupt question to Teresa as she came into his room.
The duenna was taken by surprise, and Alcala read assent in her look of confusion.
"Why was my friend not admitted at once?" cried the cavalier, in tones so angry and loud that his astonished hearers could scarcely believe that they came from lips which, but a day before, had seemed scarcely able to speak above a whisper.
"The Inglesito was not wanted here," muttered Teresa, who scarcely knew whether to be pleased at the improvement in her patient, or vexed at the way in which that improvement was manifested.
"It was for me to judge whether my visitor's presence was wanted or not," said Alcala de Aguilera. "I will write to him,—no, I have not strength to write"—(not even the feverish energy which possessedhis spirit could give steadiness to his hand)—"send Chico directly, without one minute's delay, to pray the señor to come hither. Is it not Sunday?" added Alcala more gently, turning his head towards Inez; "Lepine has no business to do upon Sundays, so his time will be free."
Teresa dared not disobey the hest of her master; she saw the fever-flush rising on his cheek, and could not risk the consequences of thwarting his will. Wishing in her heart that the vile foreign heretic were at the bottom of his own British Channel, Teresa went in search of Chico. There was, however, no need to find him, for the duenna had scarcely passed through the corridor before she heard the sound of Lepine's ring at the bell.
As for six successive evenings Lucius had been turned away from the house of the Aguileras, he had almost resolved to give up for a time all attempts to visit Alcala. On that very morning the young man had said to himself, "I will try my chance but once more;" and it was with very faint expectation of gaining admission that he came up to the grating which he had never but once been suffered to pass. It was a pleasant surprise to Lucius when Teresa, slowly and sullenly, drew back the bolt, and let him enter the patio. The old woman did not choose to usher the heretic herself into thepresence of her master, but with her wrinkled finger pointed towards the corridor which led to Alcala's apartment.
Lucius needed no more distinct invitation. He crossed the court, and entered the corridor with a heart that throbbed with expectation. Here was the opportunity which he had desired, sought, and prayed for, of conversing with his wounded friend on the most important of subjects. Lucius felt that he must not again let such an opportunity slip. But what should he say,—how should he enter on a topic which might be unwelcome? Lucius felt that extreme difficulty of entering on spiritual themes which so often fetters the lips even of experienced Christians.
But how often man's whole difficulty lies in forming a firm resolution to do what conscience commands. No sooner does he begin to put that resolution into practice than the apprehended difficulty vanishes away! Such was to be the young Englishman's experience on the present occasion.
Lucius found Alcala alone, for Inez had glided out of the room by another door when she heard the visitor's approach. The wounded cavalier welcomed his friend with eyes that sparkled with animation, and an eagerness of manner for which Lucius was by no means prepared. He had expected to findAlcala in a state of suffering, languor, and depression, and never before had he seen the Spaniard's usually melancholy face wear an expression so bright.
"You are welcome; you are the one whom I most desired to see!" cried Alcala, holding out a thin hand which trembled with excitement as well as with weakness. "I pray you to take a seat by my side."
Lucius did so, and watched as De Aguilera feebly searched for something under his pillow, and then drew out carefully from its hiding-place a little fragment of paper.
"Tell me," said Alcala earnestly, as he held out the leaf to his companion—"tell me, Lepine, what is this?"
With emotions which cannot be described, Lucius first examined the little torn scrap, and then met the gaze of the eager dark eyes that seemed to be reading him through and through.
"This is a leaf that has been torn from a Bible," said Lucius.
"And do you believe its contents—are they truth?" asked Alcala, his eyes riveted still on the face of his friend.
"This is the Word of the Eternal God of Truth," replied the young man with reverence. "But," he added in a different tone, "it is to me a strange, anunaccountable thing, how this paper should ever have come into your possession, if—as I cannot but think—it belongs to a book which I have on my person at this moment."
The Englishman drew his New Testament out of his breast-pocket, and opened it at the Epistle to the Romans, Alcala watching his movements with lively curiosity. Several leaves from that part of the volume had evidently been torn out, and afterwards neatly replaced with paper and gum; but of one leaf there remained but a portion. Lucius fitted the fragment given to him by Alcala to the torn edge of this leaf, and smiled to observe that the two portions fitted each other exactly.
The surprise of Alcala was quite as great as his own. "How can this be?" exclaimed the Spaniard; "when was that fragment torn from that book?"
"Last Sunday morning," replied Lepine. "It was torn by the first of your countrymen to whom I ever offered a religious book. He was a peasant, following a herd."
"A herd of fighting bulls—on the way to the Plaza de Toros?" asked Alcala with interest.
"Yes," replied Lucius Lepine. "The drover was angry; he mutilated and flung back my book. You must have picked up the leaf by chance."
"Not by chance; no, not by chance!" exclaimedDe Aguilera, his lip quivering as he spoke. "Mark you, Lepine, the pencilling on the margin?—Perhaps not, the faint lines are almost effaced by the tears of her who read them. Let them be effaced!" continued the cavalier with passionate fervour; "let all be effaced that is a record of the guilt and misery of man,—God's Word is legible still,—and it is the Word of Life."
I shall not attempt to give in full length the conversation that followed. Many were the questions on doctrinal points eagerly asked by Alcala, questions which showed that the speaker was one thirsting indeed for the waters of life. The Testament was searched and studied, Lucius preferring to answer the queries of his friend in God's words instead of his own. The Englishman turned from gospel to epistle, comparing this chapter with that, explaining scripture by scripture, and proving with an ease and clearness which surprised himself the truth of that grand central doctrine on which the Christian's hope is rooted, the doctrine ofjustification by faith in a crucified Saviour.
Lucius remained by the bedside of Alcala during the whole of that day; he was scarcely suffered to quit it even when night was far advanced. The friends partook together of a simple repast; their spirits were enjoying together the richest spiritualfeast. Lucius, who had been brought up by pious and enlightened parents, could not remember a time when he had doubted God's pardoning grace, or been ignorant of the first principles of evangelical religion. It had not been so with the Spaniard, and his friend was much struck by the rapturous surprise, the intense thankfulness with which the glad tidings of great joy were received by one from whose eyes truth had hitherto been hidden beneath a mass of vain superstitions. Alcala welcomed that truth as one who has suddenly found a priceless treasure, and gratefully received the gift of the New Testament from his friend.
"This shall be my study, my guide, my joy!" said the cavalier, pressing the book to his lips. "I will never part with it but with life; it has given me more than life!"
Lucius left Alcala physically much exhausted, but full of joy and peace in believing. A night of deep sweet sleep followed the day of excitement. Alcala's soul was at rest; he had found what he long had sought. God was to him no longer the terrible Judge, but the reconciled Father; death was regarded no more as the dark angel who would summon the soul to trial and condemnation, but as the seraph that would call that soul to the presence of a glorified Saviour.
Has he whose eye now glances over these pages known experimentally anything of the fears of one conscious of sin,—or the intense joy of him who has heard in his heart, "Go in peace, thy sins are forgiven thee."
TThe visits of Lucius to the house of Alcala were repeated on many successive evenings, to the great annoyance of Teresa, who both suspected and feared the stranger. Inez did not share the old servant's displeasure. She saw that the society of the Englishman made her brother strangely happy, as they studied together that marvellous Book, of which Alcala spoke to her so often. Inez rather regretted when she found that there would be a break in intercourse which was so greatly enjoyed, Lucius having to go to Madrid on some mercantile business in the latter part of September.
The visits of Lucius to the house of Alcala were repeated on many successive evenings, to the great annoyance of Teresa, who both suspected and feared the stranger. Inez did not share the old servant's displeasure. She saw that the society of the Englishman made her brother strangely happy, as they studied together that marvellous Book, of which Alcala spoke to her so often. Inez rather regretted when she found that there would be a break in intercourse which was so greatly enjoyed, Lucius having to go to Madrid on some mercantile business in the latter part of September.
"Here, I have spent all, to the last maravedi,"[15]muttered old Teresa, as she returned one Friday from market, laden with a basket heavy withvarious provisions for the household: some bread, a flask of oil (indispensable in a Spanish kitchen), a string of onions, saffron for soup, a melon, chestnuts, oranges, and olives. Meat was a luxury rarely tasted in the palace of the Aguileras. Wearily the old woman set down the basket on the kitchen table, on which Inez, with her delicate hands, was preparing her grandmother's cup of chocolate.
"I have satisfied the surgeon, as you desired, señorita," said Teresa, "and have bought these things with what remained of the twenty dollars which you gave me."
"You have laid out the dollars well, Teresa," said the maiden graciously to her ungracious retainer; "I knew that you would do the best that you could with the money."
"I wish that I knew where that money came from," said Teresa, her sharp eyes surveying her young mistress with a keen look of suspicion. As Inez never quitted the house unescorted by her duenna, and Teresa had not once been asked to attend the señorita—except to mass—since Alcala had received his wound, it had been a matter of curious speculation to the old servant how the lady had suddenly become possessed of twenty dollars, which seemed to her a very large sum.
Inez made no reply to the observation, but wenton with her occupation. This only served to intensify the curiosity of Teresa.
"I hope that those dollars were not given to the señorita by that heretic Inglesito," hissed forth the old woman, as she rested her bony knuckles on the table, and leant forward to peer more closely into the face of Inez.
"You know well that Spanish ladies accept no money from cavaliers," replied Inez, with a heightened colour on her cheek and some displeasure in her tone. "I had the dollars from Donna Maria de Rivas; she was here yesterday, as you are perfectly aware."
Teresa did not look by any means satisfied with the reply; perhaps she was too well acquainted with the family friend to deem her capable of an act of free liberality. The old woman still sharply surveyed her mistress as she observed, "I cannot abide that Donna Maria; she speaks the thing which is false."
"Teresa!" Inez began reprovingly; but the old domestic tyrant would have out her say.
"I heard this very morning that Donna Maria boasts that she possesses a silver reliquary holding a lock of the blessed Santa Veronica's hair" (here Teresa crossed herself devoutly), "a reliquary once belonging to Philip the Second, our most Catholicking,—the saints have his soul in their keeping!"
Inez moved from the table; the flush on her cheek had deepened to crimson. The duenna presumed to lay her hand on her young lady's arm to detain her.
"You know, señorita, that there is not a lock of that saint's hair to be found in all Spain, from Navarre to Andalusia, save that one which King Philip himself gave to your noble ancestor, Señor Don Amadeo de Aguilera."
Inez tried to release her arm, but the pressure of the old woman's hand had tightened into a gripe as she continued, after a pause: "You would not have me imagine that a descendant of that illustrious caballero, that a daughter of the house of Aguilera, has sold the priceless relic for twenty dollars?" The question could not have been asked with more pious horror, had it regarded the tombs containing the bones of all the maiden's noble ancestors.
Inez, in her position of helpless poverty, could not throw off that most intolerable yoke, the tyranny of an ill-tempered old duenna, who knew herself to be indispensable, because her place could not be supplied by another. Teresa considered that years of almost unpaid service had given herthe privilege of being as insolent as she pleased to her gentle young mistress. On the present occasion Teresa used—or abused—that privilege to the utmost.
"I would not have exchanged that precious relic," she cried, "for the Golden Rose which his Holiness the Pope has sent to our queen! I'd have begged—starved—thrown myself into the river—before I'd have sold it for money! The glory of the house of De Aguilera is gone for ever! The curse of the saints is upon us!" And Teresa, relaxing her hold on Inez, burst into a flood of passionate tears.
Inez was not herself sufficiently free from a superstitious regard for relics, not to be distressed and even somewhat alarmed at seeing the light in which her act was viewed by the old duenna.
"We were in debt—in need," she said softly; "I hope that the blessed saint herself would forgive what I did for the sake of a brother."
"The saint may—but I cannot!" exclaimed Teresa, hastily drying her eyes, and then bursting out of the kitchen. Her anger, if the truth must be told, sprang quite as much from her pride as from her devotion. To have it noised about in the market-place of Seville that the reliquary of King Philip, the heirloom of the Aguileras, had actuallybeen sold to purchase food,—this was even worse to the old retainer of the family than the fear of offending Santa Veronica.
Inez stood for some moments with drooping head and downcast eyes. Had she indeed, the poor girl asked herself, done something that might draw down on herself and her family the wrath of the saints?
"Perhaps I should first have consulted my brother," thought Inez; "though the reliquary was my own, the gift of my father. I should have done so, had not most of the money which I received been required to pay the surgeon to whose skill we owe so much. But I should not have trusted my own judgment; I am but a weak, foolish girl. As soon as I have carried this chocolate to my grandmother, I will go and confess the truth to Alcala. He may condemn my act, but I am sure that he at least will forgive it."
FOOTNOTES:[15]A coin of less than a farthing's value.
[15]A coin of less than a farthing's value.
[15]A coin of less than a farthing's value.
TThere are those who have asserted that the doctrine of Justification by Faith will lead to neglect of good works; that he who believes that Christ has done all, will be content himself to do nothing. How false is the assertion has been constantly proved by the lives of those who have most simply and unreservedly thrown themselves on the free mercy of Him who died for sinners! Love for the Saviour and the indulgence of wilful sin can no more exist together than fire and water unite. Where the Heavenly Guest enters, a halo of light shines around Him which reveals impurities which have hitherto, perhaps, altogether escaped the notice of conscience. Wheresoever the Saviour goes, holiness is the print left by His footsteps.
There are those who have asserted that the doctrine of Justification by Faith will lead to neglect of good works; that he who believes that Christ has done all, will be content himself to do nothing. How false is the assertion has been constantly proved by the lives of those who have most simply and unreservedly thrown themselves on the free mercy of Him who died for sinners! Love for the Saviour and the indulgence of wilful sin can no more exist together than fire and water unite. Where the Heavenly Guest enters, a halo of light shines around Him which reveals impurities which have hitherto, perhaps, altogether escaped the notice of conscience. Wheresoever the Saviour goes, holiness is the print left by His footsteps.
Thus was it with Alcala. Having received the gospel with joy, he intuitively began to considerwhat return of grateful obedience he could make for unmerited mercy. Having cheerfully resolved to run the race set before him, he felt that he must speed towards his glorious goal disencumbered of the weight of the sin which most easily beset him. Alcala had little difficulty in discovering what that sin was. Turning from contemplation of Christian doctrine to that of Christian duties, the Spaniard was struck by the very first sentence uttered by Divine lips in the Sermon on the Mount—"Blessed are the poor in spirit."
Alcala paused long, with his finger on that verse. He was a Spaniard, and a Spaniard of noble birth. He had been, as it were, cradled in pride; taught to regard pride as a lofty virtue. Was it needful, and even if needful, was it possible, to overcome what seemed woven into his very nature? Could the high-spirited cavalier ever become the meek and lowly believer?
Alcala felt that, in the struggle against pride in its various forms, he was now entering his spiritual Plaza de Toros; that his own strength was as weakness compared with that of the mighty enemy before him. He must ask for strength greater than his own, he must seek for the aid of that Holy Spirit who could enable him to overthrow and trample even upon pride. Alcala reflected deeply on the numerouspassages in Scripture which represent humility as essential to the character of a believer. It was difficult indeed to throw aside prejudices that had become as a part of himself, to recognize the truth that nothing is really degrading but sin, and that the highest and noblest have nothing whereof to boast. Alcala's reflections, however, brought him to a conviction which was once simply and beautifully expressed by a believer, whose life proved that she spoke from the heart:[16]—"What is the position of a Christian? To wash the disciples' feet, to sit at the Saviour's feet,—this is the position of a Christian!"
"I shall bear on my person to the end of my days a scar to remind me that God abhors pride," thought Alcala; "and the lesson will be enforced by new privations, in which, alas! my family must share. Who has more reason than I to know that pride is a fiend who, under the name of high spirit, lures us on to destruction? But for unmerited grace, I should have sacrificed to him both body and soul. His voice was more strong in this guilty heart than the appeals of reason, conscience, and affection. I preferred dying like a madman, to owning that I had boasted like a fool!"
Alcala was thus pondering over the subject, whenhis sister entered his apartment, knelt by his side, and timidly took his hand in her own.
"Something has grieved my sweet one," said Alcala, reading trouble in the face of his sister.
"Alcala, I must hide nothing from you," murmured Inez, with the meekness of a child confessing a fault. "I fear that I may have done wrong, but you will judge when you know the whole truth. Donna Maria was here yester-evening, while the English señor was with you. I could not help speaking to her of my troubles; I could not help telling her of our—our difficulties," continued Inez, drooping her head. "I thought that she had the means to help us, and—we are so poor, Alcala!"
"Poverty is no disgrace, my Inez," said Alcala; "except," he added gravely, "poverty brought on by such an act of criminal folly and pride as that which has laid me here."
"I told our mother's friend that I had parted with all,—everything that could be turned into money,—even your guitar, Alcala," continued Inez with a sigh. "'What, child!' replied Donna Maria, 'even with King Philip's reliquary, which holds the hair of Santa Veronica, the heirloom of which your family is so proud? I would give you twenty dollars for that!'"
"A liberal offer!" cried Alcala, with irony."Our fathers would not have sold the relic for twenty thousand!" The cavalier felt that the little hand which he held was trembling, and reproached himself for the unguarded exclamation.
"So you let the señora have the reliquary," he said, kindly sparing the poor girl the pain of continuing her story.
"Did I do very wrong?" murmured Inez. "Must I tell Father Bonifacio, when next I go to confession, that I have sold Santa Veronica's hair?"
"No; you did right," replied Alcala. And he added cheerfully, "One verse from the Bible is worth more than all the relics in the Cathedral of Seville; and as for confession, I would fain that you, like myself, should resolve never again to confess to a Romish priest."
"Renegade! infidel! apostate!" exclaimed a furious voice. Inez started in terror to her feet. Bonifacio stood in the doorway, with raised arm and clenched hand, as if he were launching a thunderbolt of vengeance at the devoted head of her brother. Teresa, horror-struck, stood behind the priest, whom she had been on the point of ushering into the apartment, when he had paused upon the threshold to hear Alcala's concluding sentence. "Wretch! abandoned by Heaven, lost to every sentiment of religion!" continued the furious ecclesiastic, "think notthat you can with impunity defy the power of the Church! We have a pious Queen, who has faithful counsellors in her confessor Claret and the saintly Patrocinio.[17]The arm of the law is yet mighty enough to strike—to crush the apostates who renounce their holy faith to join the enemies of all true religion!" And after a gesture expressing that he shook from his sandalled feet the polluted dust of the heretic's dwelling, Bonifacio turned his back on Alcala, and strode rapidly through the long corridor, followed to the entrance by Teresa, who was wringing her hands.
"O Alcala! all is lost!" exclaimed Inez.
"Fear nothing, beloved," said Alcala, with a serene composure which astonished his sister, "mere words have no power to hurt. Though Bonifacio may have the spirit of old Torquemada, these are not days when men can be sent to the stake for confessing the truth."
"But there may be persecution,—sharp, dreadful persecution," faltered Inez.
"If so, my God will enable me to bear it," said Alcala, with a countenance that brightened at the thought of enduring suffering and shame for the sake of his Lord. "Inez, my heart's sister, be not troubled. Think not of what your brother has lost,but what he has found;" and Alcala laid his hand on the sacred Volume. "If you knew more of the contents of this Book, you would fear no longer what man can do unto those who have grasped the hope of eternal life. But you shall know more of it, Inez. This evening you and our servants shall hear me read the words of truth. My wound is almost healed, my strength is gradually returning, and I would fain devote that strength to the service of my Heavenly Master. It is meet that my first audience should be those who form our own household. Lepine would have explained evangelical doctrines better than I can, to whom they are as a new revelation; yet I regret not that he is absent at Madrid, since, if the rumour of even so small a meeting were noised abroad, it might bring my friend into trouble. Let Teresa and Chico come to my room after sunset; would that our dear grandmother's mind had power to receive the glad tidings of free salvation!"
Insolent as Teresa often showed herself to her gentle mistress, the old retainer stood in awe of her master; and though she might murmur to herself at his commands, she never dared openly to dispute them. Both she and Chico were therefore present at the first meeting for Bible reading and family worship ever held in the stately old mansion.Alcala, who for the first time since his illness had quitted his couch, sat propped up with cushions. He looked pale and fragile, but serenely happy, as he read aloud a portion from one of the Gospels. The portion was necessarily short, for the reader was still very weak. Small as was the audience—for no stranger was present—it yet represented a variety of hearers. Inez, with her hands clasped, and her soft eyes fixed on the reader, listened to the words of Holy Writ with reverential attention; Teresa, with scarcely concealed repugnance; Chico could hardly be said to listen at all. The uncouth attendant's thoughts were distracted by the strange novelty of his being permitted, nay, ordered, to be seated in the presence of the caballero, Don Alcala de Aguilera,—a novelty which disgusted Teresa more than anything else in the service.
"A low fellow like that to be treated as if his wretched soul were worth as much as that of a grandee of Spain!" thought Teresa. "My master's illness must have affected his brain, or he would sooner have made a footstool of Chico than have bidden him sit down in his presence!" To her mind such an extraordinary breach of etiquette on the part of a hidalgo of Andalusia was much more strange and unaccountable than his late exposure of his life to satisfy a wild notion of honour.
Alcala was thankful that he had been strengthened to take the first decided step in the course of service which he hoped through life to pursue. He closed his Bible reading with a brief extempore prayer, of which the fervour touched the spirit of Inez, and the humility astonished that of Teresa. What cavalier had ever before prayed so earnestly to be delivered from the power of pride!
With gloomy forebodings the duenna retired from Alcala's apartment after family worship was ended. Often during the following night, as she uneasily turned on her pallet-bed, Teresa moaned her complaint that times were evil indeed, when noble pride could be deemed a sin in the heir of the honours of the Aguileras!
Happy were the slumbers of Alcala. He dreamed that night that he was again mounted on his steed in the Plaza de Toros, in the centre of the circus, and surrounded by gazing thousands. But when the door of the circus was flung open by the black-robed alguazil to whom that service belongs, it was no fierce animal that rushed forth to encounter the point of Alcala's lance. There came into the arena a procession of priests, monks, and devotees, bearing aloft graven images of saints, and swinging censers of incense, as they slowly approached him. Then, in his dream, Alcala glanced around, and, lo! insteadof the usual spectators who were wont to throng the seats in the Coliseo of Seville, the places were filled by thousands of martyrs who, in that city, had passed through the ordeal of fire. They wore no longer the yellow san-benito, the garb of shame, but robes compared to whose whiteness dim were the diamond and dark the new-fallen snow. The martyrs were "a cloud of witnesses," a cloud sparkling in the light of the countenance of Him for whom they had suffered,—a cloud reflecting His ineffable glory.
When the hour of persecution and trial arrived, Alcala drew courage and hope from the recollection of that glorious dream.
FOOTNOTES:[16]F. Tucker.[17]Isabella's confessor, and a nun who had great influence with the queen.
[16]F. Tucker.
[16]F. Tucker.
[17]Isabella's confessor, and a nun who had great influence with the queen.
[17]Isabella's confessor, and a nun who had great influence with the queen.
IInez de Aguilera always shared the sleeping-room of her grandmother, and had often to minister during the night to the aged and imbecile lady. It had never occurred to the Spanish girl to regard this duty as a hardship, but she had never felt such sweet pleasure in its performance as she did after listening to the words of her Heavenly Master which had been read aloud by Alcala. He who had said, "Love one another as I have loved you," would, Inez hoped, be pleased with her care of the aged relative whom He had intrusted to her charge.
Inez de Aguilera always shared the sleeping-room of her grandmother, and had often to minister during the night to the aged and imbecile lady. It had never occurred to the Spanish girl to regard this duty as a hardship, but she had never felt such sweet pleasure in its performance as she did after listening to the words of her Heavenly Master which had been read aloud by Alcala. He who had said, "Love one another as I have loved you," would, Inez hoped, be pleased with her care of the aged relative whom He had intrusted to her charge.
A trial to those who attended on Donna Benita was the poor old lady's inability to understand the change in the circumstances of her family; she who had come as a wealthy bride to a wealthy hidalgo, sorely missed, and never ceased to expect, the luxuries connected with the possession of riches. IfDonna Benita desired to breathe the air in the Prado, how was it that carriages with splendid horses were not ready at her command? Where was the train of attendants that should wait on the lady of a Spanish grandee? What had become of her jewels, her bracelets of diamonds, her chaplet of pearls? Old Teresa lost patience when she had to repeat for the hundredth time to her imbecile mistress that her treasures had all been carried off, nearly fifty years before, by the infidel French soldiers, who had dared to eat their puchero and smoke their cigarillos in the patio of the palace of the Aguileras.
Inez never lost her patience with the feeble invalid, but she was pained when, on the morning following Alcala's first meeting for family devotion, Donna Benita more fretfully than usual complained of the want of the luxuries which her grandchildren had not the means of providing.
"How I am neglected by all of you!" murmured the aged lady. "Have I not told you these many times to bring me my goblet of chased gold, filled with good Xeres wine? Where is it—why do you keep it from me? There is no one to do my bidding,—no one cares to bring me the delicate panada which is, as you know, my favourite dish. I am tired of chocolate, and toast, and watery puchero! Every day seems a fast-day here!"
"You shall have something nice, very nice, to-day, dear grandmother," said Inez, respectfully kissing the old lady's hand. "Teresa yesterday brought home from the market a splendid basketful of good things." And Inez glided out of the room, asking herself as she did so, "When shall we find means of so filling that basket again?"
The kitchen, which was situated at the remotest part of the mansion of the Aguileras, was very spacious, and from its emptiness now appeared very dreary. There were scarcely as many utensils left in the place as would have supplied the tent of a wandering Gitano. And yet in that kitchen, in former days, banquets had been prepared to furnish a table at which a hundred guests had sat down.
Teresa's bent, withered form was stooping over the fire, which, like the inmates of the mansion, was very scantily fed. The step of Inez was so light that the old woman did not hear it, and she was not aware that the señorita was at her side, when she flung on the fagots a small bound volume. Inez darted forward, with an exclamation of indignation, just in time to snatch unharmed from the fire the New Testament of her brother.
"Why do you presume to burn the treasured book of Don Alcala?" exclaimed the maiden, pressing the volume to her breast.
"To save Don Alcala's life!" replied Teresa, raising her head with angry surprise. "Did you not hear the threats of Father Bonifacio; have you not been told of the warning sent out by our priests against those who 'infest Catholic Seville with Bibles andother pernicious books'?[18]Are you so ignorant, señorita, as to suppose that Scripture readings can be safely carried on in a Christian country like this?" Each question was asked in a tone more loud and shrill than the last. "Every hour I am expecting the alguazils[19]to search this house, this house polluted with heresy. Woe to Don Alcala de Aguilera if that fatal book be found within it! He will be dragged out of his bed, thrust into some loathsome prison which he will never quit till his carcass be thrust forth to be flung like carrion into some ditch! I'll not see it—I'll not see it," continued the old retainer with a gesture of passionate grief; "Teresa's hand shall not be the one to open the gate of this palace to those who come to arrest its master! There's agran foncionto-day in honour of my patroness, Santa Teresa; I will go and join the procession, and try if my prayers cannot move the saint to save Don Alcala from the ruin which he is bringing on himself and his house!"
Away hurried Teresa, leaving her young lady to do her work and think over her warning.
The first occupation was easy enough: Inez had often prepared her grandmother's meals. But while her slender fingers did their office, the mind of the poor girl was painfully revolving the words of Teresa. Might they not be only too true—might not Alcala have actually placed himself within reach of the grasp of the law? Inez was constantly turning in terror to listen for sounds that might announce the coming of alguazils to seize on her brother, and search the house. The horrors of a Spanish prison to a gentleman of refinement, who had not yet recovered from the effects of a wound, and who was too poor to bribe his jailers, might actually realize the picture drawn by Teresa. The heart of Inez sank within her.
While Donna Benita was partaking of food so delicately prepared by her grand-daughter, that not even the old lady's weak, fretful mind could find in it subject for complaint, Inez was planning a little scheme for Alcala's safety, in case a search-warrant should be issued.
"The Book must not be found in this house, at least not in my brother's possession," thought Inez. "I will not destroy, but I will conceal it. I will carefully wrap up the volume, and then bury it deep,very deep, in the earth under the orange-trees which grow round the fountain; no one will look for it there, and I will take it up again when the danger is over. Alcala will spare it for a few days when I tell him why I have buried the Book. He will miss it the less since he knows, I believe, half of its contents by heart already."
It seemed a long time to Inez before Donna Benita concluded her tedious repast; a long time before her grand-daughter could beat up her pillow, shut out the daylight, and leave the old lady to enjoy the siesta which always followed her morning meal.
Inez then hurriedly proceeded to the patio, and took, from a recess in which she kept her few garden utensils, a spud with which she was wont to weed her parterre. She noticed that her plants looked less flourishing than they had done before her brother's illness; no one had cared to water or tend them, and many a shrivelled leaf showed the lack of a mistress's care. "Alcala must not find them thus," thought Inez; "my chief joy in my garden comes from knowing that it gives pleasure to him."
In haste to accomplish the work of burying the volume during the absence of Teresa, Inez knelt down, and with her imperfect instrument began todig a hole in the earth which surrounded the fountain. The maiden found the task more difficult than she had expected. The sod was dry and hard; Inez had to bring water to saturate the earth before she could make much impression upon it.
"A little deeper,—it will be safer to make the hole a little deeper," said Inez to herself, when she paused to take breath after labour which the heat of the day made oppressive. The lady took up her garden utensil again, and struck it, not down into deeper earth, but against something hard which returned a metallic clink to the stroke.
"What can be here?" exclaimed the maiden. She removed more of the earth, till a small pile of it was deposited on either side of the hole which she had been digging. A little more scraping then revealed to her view, as she bent over the opening, something like a wooden box with a handle of metal. Stooping yet lower,—she was still on her knees,—Inez took hold of the handle, and with an effort of her utmost strength attempted to draw out the box; but she was unable even to stir it.
"Can I help the señorita?" said Chico, who had been attracted to the patio by the slight but unusual noise made by Inez when digging out the earth. Since the death of poor Campeador, the bandy-legged groom had found more time for idling about.
Inez started at the unexpected voice, threw back the long hair which had fallen over her brow as she had stooped and laboured, and rose from her kneeling position. Her first feeling was that of annoyance at the intrusion of Chico; but as she was unable to accomplish her object without assistance, she accepted the offer of his aid. The young lady stood on the marble pavement watching while Chico, with considerable labour and difficulty, disengaged the box from the earth in which it had lain embedded, and, lifting it out of the hole, laid it heavily down at her feet.
The box was not so large as an ordinary desk, but exceedingly heavy in proportion to its size. It appeared to be made of walnut wood, with hinges, lock, and handle of steel, and it was clamped with broad bands of the same metal. But for many, many years that box had lain under the earth, and now the steel was rusted, the wood was rotten. The lock, indeed, was a good one still, but the hinges were eaten away with rust, and had no power to resist the strong wrench with which Chico, ere Inez could prevent him, tore off the lid of the box.
The sight of its contents, thus laid bare to the view, made Inez open wide her dark eyes with surprise. The box was a little treasury in itself, holdingwealth packed up in the most portable shape. Rouleaus of gold pieces, cases of jewels, a golden goblet filled with chains, coins, snuff-boxes, all of the same precious metal, appeared before the eyes of the wondering girl.
"Move nothing—touch nothing!" cried Inez to Chico, who, on his knees, was gloating open-mouthed over the treasure, and about to lift the goblet out of the box to explore what lay beneath it. "The Señor Don Alcala must be the first to examine what is within."
Chico took out a piece of parchment and held it up to Inez, who read on it the following words:—"I, Don Pedro de Aguilera, before leaving Seville to join the army, being apprehensive that the French may one day possibly occupy this city, do bury this casket containing my wife's most valuable jewels, and a portion of my family plate, 1810."
"Heaven has sent help to us in our utmost need!" exclaimed Inez, clasping her hands, and looking upwards with grateful joy.
But wealth is wont to bring care, and Inez had no sooner obtained possession of the family treasure than she began uneasily to revolve in her mind how she could best secure it. Her first impulse was to bid Chico carry it at once to her brother's apartment,and place it under the care of Alcala. But a moment's reflection made Inez doubt the expediency of this course.
"Alcala is in peril already," thought Inez; "should I not greatly add to his danger by placing in his room, which has not even a key to its lock, a treasure like this? If the discovery of these rich jewels and pieces of gold were bruited abroad in Seville, it would arouse the cupidity of all the ruffians with whom this city abounds! My Alcala might be murdered as well as robbed! Would I not act more wisely if I buried the treasure again, only taking out, time by time, a few pieces of money to supply our immediate need?"
Inez glanced down at Chico, who, in spite of her prohibition, seemed unable to resist the temptation of fingering the gold with his coarse, dirty hands. "I dare not trust Chico," thought Inez, in sore perplexity; "if the treasure were buried, he at least would know the secret, and there would be nothing to hinder him from abstracting whatever he pleased from the box. I hope, I think that he is honest; but the temptation might prove too great. The gold must be kept under lock and key,—where can I place it in safety?" Inez raised her hand to her brow, and reflected for several moments. It was so new a thing to the maiden to be burdened with thecare of riches! Presently an expression of satisfaction came to the anxious young face.
"There is the armoury," thought Inez; "the door is strong, and the lock is good. We will shut up the box within it, and give Alcala the key."
The place which was called the armoury, from weapons and ammunition having once been kept there, was little more than a deep recess in the wall which enclosed the patio, closed in by a low strong door, which had been so constructed as to attract little notice from without. A stranger might have resided for months in the house of the Aguileras, and have spent hours every day in the patio, without ever observing that there was a door near to the ornamental grating—indeed, under its shadow whenever the grating was thrown back. The small key of the armoury had been left in the lock, for there had been no need to use it, the place had been for many years empty of all but dust and rubbish. There could be no better place in which to secure the treasure.
"Chico," said Inez to her servant, who was still on his knees, fumbling the gold, "mention to no one—not even to Teresa—the finding of this box. You shall be well rewarded for your fidelity and your silence. Now bear the box to the armoury yonder; I will first lock it up there, and then takethe key to Don Alcala, and tell him what I have done."
Inez glided across the patio, glad that the grating was closed, so that no stranger from the street could possibly see what was passing within. Followed by Chico carrying the box, the lady reached the armoury, opened the door, and tried the lock.
"Place the box there," said the maiden, pointing to the inmost corner of the recess, close to the door of which she was standing.
Chico, instead of obeying, set down the heavy box on the pavement, and then, by a movement so sudden that it took Inez completely by surprise, he pushed the lady into the armoury, shut the door, and locked it upon her!
Inez cried out aloud in her alarm, when she thus unexpectedly found herself in darkness, a prisoner in her own home. With mingled threats, entreaties, and promises she conjured the false Chico to open the door. The traitor, however, thought time far too precious to wait either to listen or to reply. He could not, indeed, pass through the grating, of which Teresa had taken the key; but he easily made his way out by the same passage as that through which he had entered, one which communicated with the now empty stable.
Inez now exerted all her strength in the endeavourto force open the door, but it resisted her utmost efforts. The air in the armoury was close and confined. Inez could hardly breathe; she was faint with exhaustion and terror. Her cries for help were not heard, though she tried to call out loud enough for her voice to reach some passer-by in the street. Inez at last, finding all her exertions vain, could only await in discomfort and misery the return of Teresa, who would liberate her from her prison.
How long, how intolerably wearisome was the time of waiting! What painful companions to poor Inez in her solitude were her own reflections! She could not doubt that the family had been robbed by the worthless Chico,—robbed of their all at the very time when its possession was most sorely needed. The short-lived hopes which the sight of the treasure had raised in the mind of Inez, had vanished from her view like some mirage in the desert before the thirsty traveller's eyes. Poverty—destitution—appeared all the more dreadful from contrast with abundance beheld, but not enjoyed.
The minor cares of the moment lent their weight to add to the pressure of greater. Inez was uneasy at the thought of Donna Benita awaking from her siesta, and being frightened at finding no one beside her. Alcala, too, must need his lemonade, and would miss his Book,—the precious volume whichInez had still in her bosom. Add to all this the physical distress, the sense of suffocation consequent on confinement in a place in which there was no circulation of air, and some idea may be formed of the misery endured by Alcala's sister.
The impatience of Inez had risen to the point of agony long before, to her intense relief, she heard in the vaulted passage the heavy step of Teresa, wearily returning from her visit to the shrine of her patron saint.
"Release me—oh, release me!" cried out Inez from her place of confinement.
Teresa was so much astonished by hearing the cry for help, muffled as it came through the closed door of the armoury, that she dropped the key of the grating, which she was just about to open.
"Make haste—or I die!" gasped poor Inez.
Teresa made what haste her infirmities and her amazement would permit; but she had to stoop and pick up the key, fit it into the hole, and then push open the grating, and every moment thus employed was a moment of torture to Inez. At length, guided by the voice of her mistress, the old servant entered the patio, and turned round where the armoury door stood close behind the grating. In another second Inez, trembling and gasping for breath, was released from her terrible prison.
"In the name of all the saints, how came you to be locked up here?" exclaimed the wondering duenna.
"Chico has robbed us—I can say no more now!" faltered Inez, scarcely able to speak. "Go quickly to Donna Benita,—she may want help,—while I—" The sentence was never ended; for Inez, exhausted and faint as she felt, was already on her way to her brother's apartment.
"Chico has robbed us!" echoed the bewildered Teresa, lifting up her hands in amazement. "Robbed the house, and shut up the lady! I know not what there was in the place that the poorest thief in Seville would think it worth his while to take!"
Glancing around her, Teresa soon perceived the disordered state of the patio; the marble round the parterre encumbered with heaps of dust and earth, and in the ground under the bushes a hole large enough for an infant's grave. Something had surely been dug out, something had been carried away. Teresa was puzzling her brain to divine what could have occurred during her absence, when she was alarmed by sounds,—but the cause of these sounds must be reserved for the ensuing chapter.