The Spanish Cavalier Part 11

"I can think of no friend to consult save Donna Maria," continued Inez, after a pause for anxious reflection. "Her husband may have some little influence with the Governor, Don Rivadeo; and she will at least give sympathy and advice. Teresa, let us go to Donna Maria at once."

"We cannot both leave the house," said Teresa sharply. "There's Donna Benita almost in fits. The wretches dared to enter the presence of a lady of the house of Aguilera, and terrify her out of her senses."

"Hasten to my grandmother,--do not leave her!" cried Inez. "How could I be so thoughtless as to forget her helpless state for a moment!" And as Teresa turned away to seek the room of Benita, Inez murmured to herself, "I will go alone to the friend of my mother."

CHAPTER XVIII.

TURNED AWAY.

In an apartment of a dwelling far less s.p.a.cious and picturesque in appearance than the home of the Aguileras, but much better furnished with modern comforts, sits Donna Maria de Rivas. She is engaged in serious and interesting conversation with a priest, who, as Father Bonifacio, is already known to the reader.

"I can hardly yet believe it, father!" exclaimed the lady, vibrating her large black fan as she spoke. "Don Alcala de Aguilera, one of so ancient and honourable a house, to be arrested, and on so pitiful a charge! If the caballero had been tempted by need to rob the mail (he is so desperately poor), or in a fit of pa.s.sion had stabbed an enemy to the heart, it would have been quite a different thing,--one could have understood such acts; but to get himself locked up for holding a meeting for reading the Bible, such a piece of folly cannot be accounted for,--such madness exceeds all belief!"

"It is a madness, my daughter, I grieve to say it, that is by no means confined to this unhappy apostate," observed the priest. "The disease is infectious, the corruption is spreading. Unless strong and sharp measures are speedily taken, this cancer of heresy will eat deep into the very heart of society even in Seville."

"Impossible!" exclaimed Donna Maria. "I have heard, indeed, of Matamoros, and other misguided fanatics, who have happily been arrested by justice in their most wicked course; but surely the number of these wretches is few, and their example is little likely to be followed by those who see the punishment which it brings."

"Daughter, you little know the strength of this fanaticism, or the subtilty with which the poison of heresy is diffused throughout the length and breadth of our Catholic Spain!" exclaimed the ecclesiastic, warming with his subject. "So long as the vile English heretics hold Gibraltar,--would that its rock would fall and crush them!--so long will there be an open door through which all that is evil can enter our land! Secret agents of I know not how many societies distribute blasphemous tracts against the worship of the blessed Virgin, Purgatory, Intercession of Saints, and the reverence due by all the world to our holy Father the Pope!"

Donna Maria crossed herself in pious horror; and Bonifacio, with increasing vehemence, went on with his oration.

"Colporteurs hawk Bibles in the by-roads and lanes of Andalusia; copies are smuggled into rural parishes; English travellers instil the venom of their heretical doctrines even into the minds of unsuspecting _cures_! The wild mountaineers of the Sierra Nevada and Morena are, in their rude huts, poring over portions of the prohibited Book, and drinking in heresy from every line in its pages!"[20]

"But Claret will not suffer such things to go on. Are not the authorities on the watch?" asked Donna Maria.

"They are on the watch," said the vehement priest. "Have you not seen the charge of the Lord Bishop of Cadiz? Does he not piously command and exhort his clergy to exert vigilance, warning them that 'the authors and propagators of evil doctrines aim at attacking religion and society at one and the same time, making use of _books_ as their artillery for battering down, if it were possible, both of these solid edifices'? Has he not commanded the faithful to 'detest these bad books, and collect them that they may be burned'? And does not the Government of Her Catholic Majesty n.o.bly second the efforts of bishops and priests? Vessels are watched in our ports, lest Bibles should lie smuggled in their cargoes; boxes and packages are searched on our frontiers: but all in vain. If a Spaniard, merely bent on amus.e.m.e.nt, visit Paris (the last place in the world, one would think, for Protestant propagandism), he cannot so much as look round at the wonders of art in the Great Exhibition, without seeing before him copies of the Scriptures, in every language spoken under the sun, and having a portion thrust into his hand, to carry back with him into this country. The very air that we breathe is tainted with heresy. I sometimes think," added the priest with a sigh, for he was not of a cruel nature, "that nothing will clear it unless we could light again those fires with which Torquemada, the stanch champion of our faith, burnt out the evil for awhile, consuming bodies in the pious attempt to rescue perishing souls."

"I should be sorry for such dreadful punishment to overtake poor Aguilera," said Donna Maria. "He is young, and n.o.ble, and brave."

"And therefore the more dangerous, senora," observed the stern ecclesiastic. "I pity the misguided young man from the bottom of my heart. I pity both him and his sister. I have known Aguilera from his youth: I knew his father before him. But were the cavalier my own brother, I would give him up without a scruple, though not without a sigh, to the utmost rigour of justice."

A servant now entered the apartment, and announced to his mistress that Donna Inez de Aguilera was waiting without, and desired to see the senora.

Donna Maria glanced at her confessor before making any reply. The priest frowned significantly, and shook slightly his shaven head.

"Tell Donna Inez that I am sorry that I cannot see her to-day; say that I am particularly engaged," said the lady.

The servant appeared unwilling to bear the ungracious message. "The senorita seems in trouble," said the kind-hearted Spaniard; "she has come on foot; she has no attendant with her," he added, in a hesitating tone.

"On foot--without an attendant! to think of a daughter of the house of Aguilera sinking so low!" exclaimed Donna Maria, much shocked; and again she glanced almost appealingly at her confessor.

The sterner frown and more decidedly negative gesture of the head were the priest's only reply. Donna Maria reluctantly repeated her orders to the servant, who left the room to obey them.

"May I not even see the poor child?" said the lady, as soon as the man had departed.

"Better not, far better not, my daughter. You know not into what difficulties, what errors, nay, into what dangers you might be drawn by intercourse with any member of the family of the apostate De Aguilera."

The servant soon returned, his looks expressing compa.s.sion.

"The senorita entreats to be admitted to enter; she says that her business is most urgent, and cannot be delayed."

Donna Maria coloured, bit her lip, and looked down at her open fan, as if she were counting the spangles upon it.

"I cannot see Donna Inez de Aguilera," she replied, with a decision of manner which cost her an effort. The senora was a selfish, worldly woman; but she must have been utterly dest.i.tute of natural feeling if she could have unconcernedly driven from her door the friendless, dest.i.tute orphan girl, who, as the senora well knew, had come to plead the cause of a brother, and seek a friend's counsel and help in the hour of her deepest distress.

FOOTNOTES:

[20] _Vide_ "Daybreak in Spain."

CHAPTER XIX.

WANDERING ALONE.

"My mother's friend then deserts me, all earthly help fails me,"

thought Inez, as she turned away from the house of Donna Maria de Rivas. "And yet I am not forsaken." Inez glanced upwards where the deep blue sky of Andalusia spread its sapphire dome above the white glaring buildings around her. Inez marvelled at her own calmness under circ.u.mstances so trying. She had been wandering alone through the streets of Seville, protected from the stare of pa.s.sers-by only by the thick folds of the veil which the maiden drew closely around both form and face. Inez was painfully aware that she was committing a breach of Spanish etiquette, amounting almost to impropriety. In her country it is deemed unseemly, even for a girl of the humble cla.s.ses, to walk abroad unaccompanied by a matron; the young sister of De Aguilera knew, therefore, that she was but too likely to meet with insult; and her modest, sensitive nature rendered such an ordeal to her peculiarly distressing. Inez could more boldly have made her way through a thicket, where the wolf might lurk or the adder coil, than down those bright, busy streets. But not even the rude Spanish _gamins_ had uttered a jest as the lady glided timidly along; the beggars, wrapped in their mantles of rags, had not held out their hats to solicit alms.

Idle cigaretto-smoking loungers had courteously moved aside to let the maiden go by. It almost appeared to Inez as if she were guarded by invisible spirits, borne up by a strength not her own.

The maiden was indeed supported by comfort derived from a heavenly source. Inez, before starting on her walk, had opened the Book which was so dear to her brother, and which had so happily escaped the search of the police. The first words which she saw in it were enough for Inez; she closed the volume, kissed and replaced it in her bosom, repeating over and over to herself the promise, "_I will never leave nor forsake thee_." Inez uttered no prayer to Virgin or to saint: had not Alcala told her that all such prayers were useless? Alcala trusted in G.o.d alone, and so should his sister trust. Inez went forth, feeding, as it were, on the strong, sustaining nourishment afforded to her soul by a few sweet words from the Holy Scriptures. She was not so wretched, not nearly so wretched, as she had been when Alcala had ridden to the Plaza de Toros. Though Inez had, as yet, only a glimmer of gospel light, she had a comforting persuasion that Alcala was now suffering in a cause in which it was an honour to suffer: no selfish pride, no mere spirit of romance, had brought him to his present condition of peril. His Lord would be with Alcala, even in his prison, as with holy martyrs of old. Desolate as she was, as regarded human help, well might Inez look up to heaven and say, "I am not forsaken."

But where was the maiden now to turn her steps? Must she return to her home without making any further effort to find some protector for Aguilera? An almost unconscious prayer for guidance burst from the pallid lips of Inez. Then came the suggestion to her mind, "Wherefore should I not seek help from Antonia, the governor's daughter? Her father is all-powerful in Seville, and she--oh! if she be not harder than this pavement that I tread on, surely Antonia must interest herself in the fate of Alcala!"

If there were one being in the world who was an object of aversion to the gentle Inez, that being was the wealthy beauty of Seville, whose pride had so nearly cost the life of Aguilera. It had been a subject of no small thankfulness to Inez, that her brother, since receiving his wound, had never once mentioned Antonia's name. There was no misfortune more dreaded by Inez than that of having to embrace as a sister the heartless Antonia. But when Alcala lay ill of his wound, inquiries had been made regarding his state by a messenger wearing the governor's livery. Inez could scarcely believe it possible that Antonia could reflect without grief and remorse on the pain which she had caused to one whom, in the judgment of his young sister, no one could know and not love.

Inez had herself but slight personal acquaintance with Donna Antonia; they had met at the house of Donna Maria, and had there exchanged a few words. This slight acquaintance had by no means inclined Inez to wish for closer intimacy with the governor's daughter. Don Lopez de Rivadeo was himself a proud insolent upstart, who owed his place to his relationship to Claret, the confessor of Queen Isabella. No man in Seville was more unpopular than Don Lopez. The governor only used his power to fill his coffers. His was the hand to close on the bribe; he sold offices to the highest bidder; he oppressed the poor, he fleeced the rich; he was ready at all times, and in all ways, to do the bidding of one of the most unscrupulous governments that had ever afflicted even unhappy Spain. It was not willingly that Inez de Aguilera would ever have sought either mercy or justice from such a man as Lopez de Rivadeo; she had not the power, even had she the will, to work on his cupidity; she could only hope to influence him through the medium of Donna Antonia. The governor's only child was the pride of her father's heart, as well as the heiress of all his fortune; and gossip had whispered that the easiest way to climb to the great man's favour was by a chain of gold or rope of pearl round the neck of his beautiful daughter.

On, therefore, towards the governor's house went Inez, treading with weary feet over rough stones, sun-baked pavements, across glaring plazas. Thankful was the poor wanderer when trees bordering some paseo (promenade) afforded her temporary shade. Full as was the maiden's mind of anxiety and sorrow, nature at last would make its wants felt.

Inez had had no refreshment that day since partaking of an early and slender breakfast, and it was now many hours past noon. Inez had had much to exhaust a frame not naturally strong, and had never before walked so far in the heat of the day. The poor girl's mouth was parched and dry with feverish thirst; weariness oppressed her; she felt that she could scarcely go further unless she slaked that thirst.

Happily, Seville offers her sparkling fountains to weary wayfarers like Inez. The maiden, however, shrank from approaching any of the larger fountains which ornamented the plazas, fearful of being noticed, perhaps recognized, by some of the gay idlers who congregated around them. There was a fountain in a more quiet corner of a street, where a tiny rill of water trickled from the mouth of a stone dolphin into a basin below. Towards this place Inez now moved her languid feet.

A man in a high-coned Andalusian hat, and wearing the long cloak which Spaniards think a needful article of dress even in the warmth of September, was filling for himself a little tin vessel attached to the fountain. Very near him squatted on the ground a vendor of fruit, the large basket before him piled with tempting oranges, citrons, melons, and figs, and bunches of grapes from Malaga vines. The fruit-seller was conversing with a third person--a peasant--who was making a simple meal off roasted chestnuts, while he chatted with his companion. Inez stood a few paces distant from the group, waiting till the man in the high hat should have quenched his thirst, that she might satisfy her own. The maiden thus could not avoid hearing some of the conversation pa.s.sing between the three.

"But what was the caballero's crime, eh?" were the first words, spoken by the peasant, which arrested the attention of Inez.

"White Judaism, folk say," was the reply uttered by the vendor of fruit.

"White Judaism! what may that be?"

The question was apparently more easily asked than answered, for it was not till after sundry shrugs, expressive of perplexity, that the fruit-seller replied: "As far as I can make out, it's plotting to burn all the churches, knock down the convents, and hang all the friars."

"You've not hit the right mark, my friend," said the man in the high-peaked hat who was filling the tin. "I should know all about the matter, for I've travelled as courier to English caballeros; and White Judaism is their religion, when they've any at all. It's saying that the holy apostles were Jews, every one of the twelve, and the blessed Virgin herself only a Jewess!"