Part 44 (1/2)

In her anguish and dismay, Beatriz fled for refuge to her kind-hearted cousin, Dona Inez.

Dona Inez received her into her house, where she soothed and comforted her; and soon found means to despatch an ”esquelita,” or billet, to Don Juan, to the following effect:--”Dona Beatriz is here. Remember, my cousin, 'that a leap over a ditch is better than another man's prayer.'”

To which Juan replied immediately:--

”Senora and my cousin, I kiss your feet. Lend me a helping hand, and I take the leap.”

Dona Inez desired nothing better. Being a Spanish lady, she loved an intrigue for its own sake; being a very kindly disposed lady, she loved an intrigue for a benevolent object. With her active co-operation and a.s.sistance, and her husband's connivance, it was quickly arranged that Don Juan should carry off Dona Beatriz from their house to a little country chapel in the neighbourhood, where a priest would be in readiness to perform the solemn rite which should unite them for ever.

Thence they were to proceed at once to Nuera, Don Juan disguising himself for the journey as the lady's attendant. Dona Inez did not antic.i.p.ate that her father and brothers would take any hostile steps after the conclusion of the affair--glad though they might have been to prevent it--since there was nothing which they hated and dreaded so much as a public scandal.

All Juan's latent fire and energy woke up again to meet the peril and to secure the prize. He was successful in everything; the plan had been well laid, and was well and promptly carried out. And thus it happened, that amidst December-snows he bore his beautiful bride home to Nuera in triumph. If triumph it could be called, overcast by the ever-present memory of the one who ”was not,” which rested like a deep shadow upon all joy, and subdued and chastened it. Few things in life are sadder than a great, long-expected blessing coming thus;--like a friend from a foreign land whose return has been eagerly antic.i.p.ated, but who, after years of absence, meets us changed in countenance and in heart, unrecognizing and unrecognized.

Dolores welcomed her young master and his bride with affection and thankfulness. But he noticed that the dark hair, at the time of his last visit still only threaded with silver, had grown white as the mountain snows. In former days Dolores, could not have told which of the n.o.ble youths, her lady's gallant sons, had been the dearer to her.

But now she knew full well. Her heart was in the grave with the boy she had taken a helpless babe from his dying mother's arms. But, after all, was he in the grave? This was the question which she asked herself day by day, and many times a day. She was not quite so sure of the answer as Senor Don Juan seemed to be. Since the day of the Auto, he had a.s.sumed all the outward signs of mourning for his brother.

Fray Sebastian was also at Nuera, and proved a real help and comfort to its inmates. His very presence served to s.h.i.+eld the household from any suspicions that might have been awakened with regard to their faith.

For who could doubt the orthodoxy of Don Juan Alvarez, while he not only contributed liberally to the support of his parish church, but also kept a pious Franciscan in his family, in the capacity of private chaplain?

Though it must be confessed that the Fray's duties were anything but onerous; now, as in former days, he showed himself a man fond of quiet, who for the most part held his peace, and let every one do what was right in his own eyes.

He was now on far more cordial terms with Dolores than he had ever been before. This was partly because he had learned that worse physical evils than ollas of lean mutton, or cheese of goat's milk, _might_ be borne with patience, even with thankfulness. But partly also because Dolores now really tried to con suit his tastes and to promote his comfort. Many a savoury dish ”which the Fray used to like” did she trouble herself to prepare; many a flask of wine from their diminis.h.i.+ng store did she gladly produce, ”for the kind words that he spake to him in his sorrow and loneliness.”

In spite of the depressing influences around her, Dona Beatriz could not but be very happy. For was not Don Juan hers, all her own, her own for ever? And with the zeal love inspires, and the skill love imparts, she applied herself to the task of brightening his darkened life. Not quite without effect. Even from that stern and gloomy brow the shadows at length began to roll away.

Don Juan could not speak of his sorrow. For weeks indeed after his return to Nuera his brother's name did not pa.s.s his lips. Better had it been otherwise, both for himself and for Dolores. Her heart, aching with its own lonely anguish and its vague, dark surmisings, often longed to know her young master's true innermost thought about his brother's fate. But she did not dare to ask him.

At last, however, this painful silence was partially broken through.

One morning the old servant accosted her master with an air of some displeasure. It was in the inner room within the hall. Holding in her hand a little book, she said,--”May it please your Excellency to pardon my freedom, but it is not well done of you to leave this lying open on your table. I am a simple woman; still I am at no loss to know what and whence it is. If you will not destroy it, and cannot keep it safe and secret, I implore of your wors.h.i.+p to give it to me.”

Juan held out his hand for it. ”It is dearer to me than any earthly possession,” he said briefly.

”It had need to be dearer than your life, senor, if you mean to leave it about in that fas.h.i.+on.”

”I have lost the right to say so much,” Juan answered. ”And yet, Dolores--tell me, would it break your heart if I sold this place--you know it is mortgaged heavily already--and quitted the country?”

Juan expected a start, if not a cry of surprise and dismay. That Alvarez de Menaya should sell the inheritance of his fathers seemed indeed a monstrous proposal. In the eyes of the world it would be an act of insanity, if not a crime. What then would it appear to one who loved the name of Santillanos y Menaya far better than her life?

But the still face of Dolores never changed. ”Nothing would break my heart _now_,” she said calmly.

”You would come with us?”

She did not even ask _whither_. She did not care: all her thoughts were in the past.

”That is of course, senor,” she answered. ”If I had but first a.s.surance of _one_ thing.”

”Name it; and if I can a.s.sure you, I will.”

Instead of naming it she turned silently away. But presently turning again, she asked, ”Will your Excellency please to tell me, is it that book that is driving you into exile?”

”It is. I am bound to confess the truth before men; and that is impossible here.”