Pelayo a story of the Goth |
 |
 | 1. |
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
| 9. |
| 10. |
| 11. |
| 12. |
| 13. |
| 14. |
| 15. | XV. |
| 16. |
| 17. |
| 18. |
| 19. |
| 20. |
| 21. |
| 22. |
| 23. |
| 24. |
| 25. |
| 2. |
 | XV. Pelayo |  |
15. XV.
Full of his newborn admiration for the beauties of
the Lady Cava, Egiza, with that flexibility of soul which
was his prevailing defect, now pressed his love upon
her in another apartment. Even as he spoke, his younger
brother, Pelayo, whose spirit had no such mood
within him, and whose only thought now was the
rescue of his people from the despotic Roderick and
the revenging of his father's death, walked forward
gloomily to where the two held their discourse. The
eyes of Egiza were too much with his heart to behold
his coming, and those of the Lady Cava looked not up
once from the floor as she listened to a strain of profession
which she readily drank in from the lips uttering it.
“Now will they curse me in their souls for an intruder
upon their pleasures,” murmured Pelayo, as he
beheld the two. He paused in his progress and hesitated.
While he did so, the urgent and persuasive tones
of his brother's voice came to his ears.
“Nay, chide me not, sweetest Cava, that I thus fondly
pursue thee with my love. Hear me plead, dearest lady,
with sufficient reason for my prayer. The times are
wild, full of images of danger, full of strife and apprehensions.
Should I now forego the blessed chance
which has yielded me thy hearing, I were not sure that
like good fortune should be mine hereafter. The next
to avail myself.”
“Oh, sir—my noble lord—do not, I pray you, look
upon me, and implore me after this pressing fashion.
You do wrong to a timid maiden by such prayer. Mine
eye hath only seen you; it were rash, and worthy of a
long sorrow and a heavy judgment, were I so quickly to
incline a willing ear to your soliciting. Let me go free,
my lord, and I will think of what thou hast spoken.”
“He is no man if this answer baffles him,” murmured
Pelayo; “it is a denial very like a consenting. A pretty
hypocrite—she does it well. Her eyelids point to the
floor which her eyes see not; her arms hang idly, as if
they felt it wrong to be without employ; and, do but
behold her feet, how they peep out and play apart upon
the floor. There is a strife between the tongue that
speaks and the heart which speaks not, which these
pretty feet do show, and which the soft warrior watches.
Stay—he speaks—he hath paused for memory. Belike
the flowers of his fancy need to be looked after; he
hath not tended them lately.”
“Nay, sweetest Cava, wouldst thou then leave me?
and whence this fear? What though your eyes have
not until this day beheld me, it makes not against your
taking the homage of the heart which their first glances
have won.”
“It were a weakness, noble lord,” she murmured in
reply.
“And the weakness of love, sweetest Cava, is the
very strength of nature, and may not be gainsaid by
reproach. It is no weakness such as makes the heart
ashamed. It is none to bring shame to thee.”
“But sorrow, perchance, my lord—much sorrow.”
“Wherefore? The decree of love is from Heaven,
and the destiny is but a sad one in which its pleasant
law is not written. To deny love's prayer is to defy
obeyed, were not less for our pleasure than our good.
Hear me, then, dearest Cava; be not stern, be not cold,
lest that thou wrong Heaven's own laws by withholding
thy obedience.”
“Thou dost press me too closely, my lord; I am too
young to answer thee.”
The reply was uttered in broken murmurs, and Pelayo
well saw that the words which she spoke were foreign
to her meaning. His sarcastic humour noted well
the contradiction.
“And yet, by the distaff of Hercules the Slumberer,
even as she speaks there is a warm wish in her heart
that he had pressed her more closely yet. The old
snake again; and our Adam may well beware, since
the hypocrite that counselled Eve hath not withheld his
lessons from her daughter. See, her head bends towards
him, though her lip prays him to keep his distance. Well
—Heaven keep us, we shall know some day what we
need, or would have, at least, for we do not often say it
for ourselves.”
Egiza did not mistake the true nature of Cava's feelings.
Her words misled him as little as they did his
brother, and his prayer became more earnest.
“Oh, be not thus chary of thy charms, sweet Cava.
Look up, dear lady, and hearken to love's argument not
less than to his prayer.”
“Love's argument!” said Pelayo. “Well, that's
new. He'll give it her, I trust.”
“Thou dost object the briefness of our knowledge
—our discourse; thou sayst that 'twere a weakness,
having seen but once, to dispose ourselves in love, and
might bring sorrow upon our hearts.”
“In truth, I fear it much, my lord. We were but
rash—it were a child's weakness to yielo us up to such
sudden passion.”
“The girl has sense enough in her head if her heart
were out of the way!” exclaimed Pelayo. But the answer
of Egiza was in another mood.
“And yet how else, my sweetest Cava, are spirits to
be won and wedded, if not thus? Love is no sober
student — he needs no long study — no books — no
schools—no teaching. He moves to his purpose by no
measures, no scales, no weights. He gains not his
conquest by a ten years' siege, which, sovereign though
it may be for patience, were but a death to him who,
in an instant, leaps to his possession when we least note
his movement. 'Tis an instinct, sweet Cava, and not
a study. It is the first instinct of the heart; for, until it
loves, the heart has no consciousness of life. My heart
has not lived till within this hour — ah, may it be that
thine has taken life in the same sweet consciousness with
mine. This is my prayer, sweet Cava—this my hope.
Hast thou not an answer for me, dearest? If thou hast
not—if the heart which mine own seeks feels not now,
with an instinct quickening into life, like mine, then am
I lost. I hope not from other pleading. Is it thus,
Cava? Tell me—art thou unfeeling? art thou cold?
wilt thou deny me? shall I pray to thee in vain?”
The respiration of the maiden seemed checked, and
the broken words which followed were a full answer,
had the excited feelings of Egiza suffered him to note
their emphasis.
“Oh no—not unfeeling—not cold, my lord.”
“Tell me then, dearest Cava, that the instinct of my
heart is thine. Say to me that thou lovest me.”
“The game is too close hunted—I'll give it reprieve
—come in at the death, but not see it.”
Speaking thus, Pelayo advanced; and, ere the lady
could frame her answer, the heavy tread of his step
reached the ears of the lovers, and arrested their dialogue.
“Ah, lady,” he exclaimed to her as he approached,
thou hast left them to seek thee out as they might. I
had hoped to find thee ere my brother; but, as he has
the birthright, so, it seems, he has the good fortune. I
have but stumbled upon thee without guidance, since he
has had thine eyes to himself.”
With the instant readiness of the woman, the confusion
which a moment before overspread every feature of
the maiden's countenance now utterly departed; and
she replied with ease by saying, what, indeed, was the
truth, that she had left him and his brother alike under
the guidance and in the company of her father.
“Why, true, fair lady; and yet my brother, you see,
could escape to seek out a better guide; and a like
passion beset me, the more, indeed, as I left the good
count under my uncle's homily, and he in the highest
heaven of his self-esteem while he bestowed it upon him.
I had no wish to rob your father of the blessing, and, I
fear me, have stolen here upon devotions even more urgent
than those I fled from. My brother has a most
priestlike visage, and you, Lady Cava—nay, you look
not like one who could well guide either of us now to
the fine prospects of this noble castle.”
Egiza now beheld the renewed confusion of the damsel
at these words, and interposed for her relief.
“Nay, nay, brother—we did but step aside that our
uncle should speak securely to Count Julian on the subject
which, as thou well knowst, he has so much at
heart. It were not well in us to meddle with the better
arguments with which it is his hope to move him to our
aid.”
“And hop'st thou aught,” demanded Pelayo, in a side
whisper, of his brother, “and hop'st thou aught from
this appeal? If thou dost so far deceive thyself, good
brother, thou canst not deceive me. The damsel's father
will do nothing for us—I say the damsel's father,
Egiza.”
“A moment, fairest lady,” said Egiza, as he turned
from Cava to Pelayo; “I will but speak a moment—
'tis an urgent matter—with my brother.”
The maiden bowed, and turned from the speaker to
the corner of the gallery.
“How know you — wherefore think you thus, Pelayo?”
“See—the Lord Oppas comes with Julian. Behold
the brows of your uncle, and take your answer from
them. 'Tis written there legibly enough; but I knew
it long before, from the face of Julian himself. See
his brow, how smooth; he has had his response ready
ere he heard our uncle's argument, of which you thought
so greatly, and which, from the beginning, I held of but
little account; and now go, if it so please you, and
prattle your gay conceits in the ears of the maiden whose
sire denies you justice, denies you the due of his life
and good sword, both of which, as his proper sovereign,
you have the right to challenge. But, ere you go, hear
me. Prepare to give up the crown and kingdom of
our father, or go with me with the dawn for the Asturias.”
When he had ended these words, Pelayo turned from
his brother to where the two of whom he spoke were
approaching, and with a scornful composure of countenance
awaited their coming. Count Julian, who beheld
and understood the glance, did not, however, suffer it to
move him, but continued to speak of the topic between
himself and his companion, which, from his remarks,
seemed about to be brought to a full though not a favourable
conclusion.
“You have my thought, my Lord Oppas, without restraint.
I have spared nothing and strained nothing in
my judgment on this subject. It would glad me much
that these young men should have the station to which
they assert a right, for I cannot forget the many and
But I cannot hold the cause of Roderick to be less just
than is theirs. The right of election is with the people,
and they have raised him upon the shield; and I hold
that whatever might be the blood within his veins, whether
it sprang from the heart of the Goth or the Roman,
or from the base puddle of the Iberian or the Bascone,
it were still in the power of the Gothic people to lift it
to such honourable estimation as now crowns the ambition
of Roderick.”
“It grieves me that you think so, Count Julian; and
no less great is my sorrow that you have proved yourself
insensible to the other arguments of force which I
had deemed it useful to urge upon you. You will not
esteem it an obtrusion, Count Julian, if I pray you still
to consider them. There is yet time.”
The count smiled as he replied gently, but with sufficient
firmness of air to show that he was inflexible in
the resolve which he had made.
“The arguments, as you are pleased to style them,
my lord bishop, move me not. Were it wise in me, at
my years, to seek for place and power beyond that
within my present possession, this commission just received
from King Roderick, giving me the highest subordinate
power in the kingdom, without prayer or service
from me, would reasonably encourage me to hope
for more at his hands, were I moved to wish such
gain. But I desire no greater honours, as I desire no
additional toils and responsibilities. I take not my
present charge, which I had thought to have yielded up
to some fitting successor, but that the Moor threatens
at our gates, and the soldiers who are accustomed to defend
them are no less accustomed to me as their captain
in such defence. To this effect is the answer
which I have prepared for Roderick, in acknowledging
the trust which he has been pleased to confirm in my
hands.”
Pelayo joined them at this moment, and, speaking
abruptly, arrested the courteous response which the archbishop
was preparing for the ears of Julian.
“Soh, good uncle, now that you have your answer,
let us be gone. Let us give our gratitude and our
thanks—words, words, all—and then away. We need
make but little pause, and may make great speed in
our progress, since we carry no burden, unless it be
my brother's impatience. We have come hither hoping
much; what we bear hence will diminish our hope, and
so lessen the weight we bear away. We do not leave
our host in such good fortune, since thy homily, Lord
Oppas, has made him reasonably grave.”
“And what need of such haste, my friend? give
yourselves leave to-night, and enjoy our couches. Do
me grace, my young lord, whose speech is more sharp
than needful, and wrong me not in your thought that I
adventure not with you. If my prayer and reason might
avail, I would have you forbear your purpose also, as
it were but desperation to lift an arm against Roderick.
He is too firmly seated in the throne for any force, such
as yours to overthrow.”
“Perhaps, perhaps my lord; — but my lessons
have not taught me this heedful policy. That rule of
narrow selfishness which determines of its duty by its
chance was not among my lessons. I measure no
virtue by expediency. My duty must be done, though
Count Julian counsels against it; I must strive at the
work which is given me, though I perish in the labour.
I know there is a more sleek sort of virtue in the world
which takes easier roads of duty; I gainsay not him
who prefers it; and well I know that such have always
fine arguments for its defence. Let it pass. Yet I
thank you, my lord count, for your courtesy; nor, though
I use it not, am I less grateful for your good counsel.
It might profit others, but would only beggar me; and
whom it would better stead than myself. Shall we not
depart, good uncle?”
“Ay, my son, if it please you. Yet a moment.”
He turned to Count Julian as he thus replied to Pelayo,
and in tones which were audible only to the two,
and were meant only for the ears of the former, he thus
spoke.
“What we have spoken, my lord count, I hold to be
in sacred trust between us.”
Julian put his hand on his heart as he replied—
“You are safe with me, my lord bishop; for though
the officer of King Roderick, my honour is in my own
keeping. If I betray not my own trust, he cannot demand
of me to betray the trust of another.”
“And if you did, my lord,” exclaimed Pelayo, misunderstanding
the import of Julian's reply, and striking
the hilt of his weapon as he spoke—“and if you did,
my lord, you would not find us willing victims. There
are swords to be bared and blows to be struck ere the
betrayed fall at the mercy of the betrayer in sacrifice to
his tyrant.”
“There needs not this display of valour, young man,”
replied the count, calmly. “I mean you no wrong.
You have sought me trusting to my faith, and you shall
not suffer by your confidence. Yet it were well to say
that I would not have you again seek me on such mission.
It is enough for you to know that I shall this day
accept the trust of King Roderick; such trust will be
incompatible with your purpose; and I must not know
of it. From this moment, what has already passed is
forgotten. You are free to depart without interruption
when you please, though it were no wrong to my honour
to give you honourable tendance and fresh couches
for the night. Let me pray you, then, to remain.”
“I know, my lord count, that we are free to depart
touching the hilt of his sword. “Hold me not unthankful
for your courtesy, my lord, when I decline it;
but I must be soon a traveller if I would not that my
head should keep countenance with that of my father—
the King Witiza—your friend, Count Julian—upon the
gates of Toledo.”
There was much in this speech that pained and offended
Count Julian; but, with the subdued superiority
of age, he freely allowed for the warmth and impetuousity
of youth, angered as it was, in the case of Pelayo,
by his late and painful losses. Still, he could scarce
forbear stern reply; yet he turned away, and bit his lip
in silence. Meanwhile the three prepared to depart;
and, while they bade their adieus to their host and his
lovely daughter, Pelayo addressed himself to the latter
with more freedom than he had before shown in his approaches
to her.
“Lady, by your leave,” he said, taking her hand and
carrying it to his lips, an action which not a little annoyed
the jealous Egiza, who was engaged in speech with
Julian. “Oh, you shall be my queen, sweetest lady,
and no subject in your realm should be so true to you
as I, if you can but persuade my brother here to rid
himself of a certain damsel whom he wills for ever to
ride in his train.”
“A damsel, my lord?” demanded Cava, in unfeigned
astonishment.
“Ay, lady, a damsel—not so fair as thou art, but one
he would keep with no less.”
“I pray you, what is she?” inquired the maiden.
“Ask you for her name or quality?”
“Oh, both, my lord.”
“Well, then, her name is Patience—a goodly scripture
name. Our uncle, the archbishop here, taught it
him, with her choice qualities, in sundry exhortations;
virtues. She is now, indeed, my brother's mistress.
She rides with him, nor trusts him at any time from
her sight. If he would move, she plucks him by
the sleeve, and counsels him against rash riding and
youthful venturesomeness; and when other youth not
so counselled would urge him on to greater daring, she
quarrels with them in a mood too spiteful to keep faith
with the name she bears. Truly, Lady Cava, would I
rejoice that my brother should ride with any damsel but
this, for she drives better spirits from his side, and keeps
him in a sad lonesomeness, and all the bondage of the
solitude she makes. Couldst thou help him, sweet
lady—”
The approach of the jealous Egiza enabled him to
hear much of what his brother had said, and to interrupt
him at this moment—
“He jests, sweet lady. He hath a stray spirit,
which moves him ever to such speech of his friends.
Heed him not, I pray you.”
“I jest!” exclaimed Pelayo. “I tell thee not to believe
me, sweet Lady Cava, for I know thou wilt. I
cannot jest. I can understand no jest. When I jest
teeth are broken—ay, and heads too. He knows I do
not jest, and jests when he tells thee thus. I leave you,
lady.”
“Farewell, farewell, sweet Cava,” was the parting
whisper of Egiza. “You are in my heart—its substance
and its soul, dear lady.”
“And in mine too, sweet lady,” said Pelayo, whose
keen ear caught the whisper, “if thou wilt but do as I
have prayed thee. Teach him to rid himself of that
damsel of whom I told thee, so that he shall awaken
into the life that is his duty, and the rough speech of
Pelayo shall take a goodlier tone, and shape your
praises even into sounds of music.”
“You overrate my power, Prince Pelayo.”
“Not a whit—I would that thou shouldst use it for
his good. I pray thee, lady, if again he seeks thee,
that thou wilt do so.”
Egiza murmured over these words as he passed from
the threshold:—
“If he seeks thee? Can I else than seek her? I
have no thought now but to remain; and if my power
serve but with my will, I cannot help but return.”
“You grow impatient, brother,” exclaimed Pelayo,
after he had bidden farewell to the count. “Why do
you linger? The fair damsel, Love, has departed, and
the other damsel, who is not so fair, Dame Patience,
grows chill with waiting.”
| XV. Pelayo | |