University of Virginia Library

18. CHAPTER XVIII.
WEAKNESS OF THE STRONG MAN—SUIT AND SCORN.

The appearance of Vasco Nunez in the bohio of Teresa
Davila did not discompose or disquiet the maiden. She
received him with a quiet unconscious indifference of manner,
which, to one a mere looker-on, and not interested to
blindness by his own passionate emotions, as was the case
with the cavalier, would have been at once conclusive
against his suit. But the manner of Teresa was not a
thing in his eye or a thought in his mind, while he gazed
upon her superb and majestic beauty. The glance of her
dark, keen, flashing eye, disordered and confused his own;
her glossy and streaming ringlets, half-confined and half-freed
among the twisted pearls that were folded in orient
wreaths among the luxuriant tresses of her raven hair,
seemed to mislead his thoughts into intricate and wandering
mazes like their own; while her tall, and finely rounded
figure, flowing with grace and dignity, imposed upon
him a feeling of inferiority that almost prompted him to
fall before her where he stood, and worship afar without
aiming at any nearer approach. The heart of Teresa Davila,
though without any sympathy with that of Vasco
Nunez, was yet fond of admiration, and the expressive
hesitancy of the cavalier as he came into her presence,
was a tacit tribute to her charms which at once brought all
the smiles into her cheek. She graciously motioned him
to approach, and addressed him in language, which, though
customary in that season of unmeasured compliment and
strained courtesy, was readily enough construed by the
hopeful heart of the cavalier into a more decided expression
of encouragement.

“What, you have come at last, Señor Vasco! Methinks
you have waited for the last clouds of the hurricane to
disappear, before looking after the poor damsel who owes
you thanks for helping her through it. I looked for your
presence last night; Don Diego should have been here
also and the Señor Garabito. But though Ninetta tuned

the guitar, none came to hear the song. I grew angry with
you all from sheer weariness of myself.”

“Even as the rich man wearies of his own treasure for
which all other men thirst. Ah! Teresa, thou shouldst
not weary of thyself, if thou wouldst find other keeper
for thy charms. Why shouldst thou be burdened with so
weighty a trust? Thou shouldst have a treasurer, lady;
one with heart so loyal, that there were no fear that he
should desert his charge or defraud it of any gem, the
smallest in thy present possession—one, who, to the pious
fondness of the holy priest, serving at the altar, should
add the uxorious passion of the miser, which would ever
prompt him to lock up his sacred trust so closely that the
spoiler should sooner penetrate his heart than the invaluable
casket in its keeping.”

“Ah! it is well to speak thus, Señor Vasco,” responded
the maiden with something of a sigh, “and there were no
damsel in all Spain but would listen to such grateful counsel;
but where, think you, could I find treasurer so to
value such poor charms as mine, and if found, how am I
sure that he would prove the loyal and devoted person
whom thou describest?”

“There are sure tokens, sweet lady, by which to distinguish
such person. Is there one to whom thy presence
is a continual pleasure, and thy absence a continual pain—
to whom thy smile is as a beam of blessed light from
heaven, springing suddenly out when the prevailing cloud
before, has hung black and heavily over all the skies—to
whom thy frown is like the aspect of that black despair which
tells the desolate that he is hopeless of all the things most desired
of his heart? Nay, dearest Teresa, why should I speak
to thee in these vain fancies. The time is come when my
words should be those of the man—when my heart must
be as resolute in its tenderness—in its love—as it should
ever be in strife and danger. It knows no greater danger
than it fears at this moment—it has never struggled with a
greater strife. Hear me, dearest Teresa, while I speak to
thee of such a man—of one who will treasure thy charms
for thee, deep in the warmest cells of his bosom, with
such jealous watch, that none shall steal, none shall assail,
none shall desecrate, and he himself shall not only keep
watch but worship while he watches.”

He sank before her upon his knee, and clasped her hand

fervently as he bowed. The position in which he knelt,
distinguished by a natural grace which made even humility
a dignified and pleasing object, was eminently grateful to
the vain heart of the maiden, and though she strove to disengage
her hand, her efforts were feeble, and the faint smile
upon her lips amply testified that the annoyance of his addresses
to her sense of propriety was not so great as the
tribute was pleasing to the vanity of her capricious mind.

“Rise, Señor Vasco, do not thus, I pray thee—we shall
be seen,—the curtains of the bohio are withdrawn. I will
call Ninetta.”

“Nay, nay, call not—rise not—I will not suffer thee,
Teresa; and I care not though the whole world looked on
and listened to the fond truths which my lips would murmur
to thee now. Hear me, Teresa, there is that within
my heart which commands me to speak, and the blessed
Virgin grant that there be a something in thine which shall
incline thee to hear. A day past, and I had not spoken
thus—I had not dared. But now that I am destitute, defrauded
of fortune, and almost hopeless in respect of wealth
—nay, of that which is more dear to me than any of the
world's wealth save thee, almost hopeless of fame,—I am
become bold to speak. I come to speak to thee of the
love I bear thee, and have borne thee, from the first moment
that my eyes were kindled by a beam from thine,
when thou didst first come with thy uncle to Española. I
love thee, Teresa, with a passionate love, which, methinks,
would find death in thy denial; and—nay, rise not—look
not thus, dearest Teresa.”

“Oh, señor, this is most strange; why wilt thou speak
thus, and do thus: leave me, I pray thee, I had not looked
for this. I must call my damsel.”

“Thou must not—thou shalt not, till I am answered.
Hear me, Teresa,—day after day for many months have I
followed thy steps, and hung about thy form even as its
shadow, until men whispered, `the bold spirit of Vasco
Nunez hath utterly gone from him—he is a warrior no
longer.' Glorious visions of greatness were mine, and
hopes strengthened by study and experience, promised me
triumphs beyond those of any among the thousand cavaliers
going forth from Spain to the new countries. Why did I
forbear to press these hopes to their confirmation? why
did I fail to prosecute the triumphs which they promised

me? Thou wert the cause, Teresa, the blessed cause, and
for thee I became a sluggard, and for thee I suffered days
and weeks to pass, preferring rather to look upon thy surpassing
beauties, than to gather the rich gems and the yellow
gold that lies in waiting for the eye of the European
on the shores of that Cathaian sea. In a sudden and single
moment, as thou sawest, the tempest swept the seas
and the waves sucked down into their recesses, the good
ship which was to bear me to this conquest, and all the
long gathering aids by which my greatness was to be
achieved. In my destitution I have grown free to speak,
and I speak to thee with the boldness of a heart that is
confident as it is loyal, and fears not to declare its truth
when that truth speaks only in love. My heart is thine,
Teresa; it hath been thine, as thou must have seen, for a
long season. Give me thine, I pray thee, and the storm
shall be forgotten, and the loss of this treasure will be as
nothing in my eyes, to the greater treasure which I shall
then possess in thee.”

The cavalier paused. His rapid speech, which poured
forth the voluminous and long accumulating feelings of his
heart in a torrent that would not be stayed, as it could not
be stifled, forbade every attempt at interruption on the part
of the maiden. But she did not seek to interrupt him.
The homage was too grateful to her pride. While he
spoke in accents, which, though rapid as thought, yet
trembled with his almost convulsive emotion, the bright
fires blazed from her eye more keenly, her glance was uplifted,
her head slightly thrown back upon her shoulder,
and the upper lip, gradually curling into an expression of
beautiful scorn, truly indicated the cold selfishness and
morbid vanity of a heart that knew not how to feel a single
sentiment in common with that nobleness of spirit,
which proffered itself so completely to her love. While
he gazed on her his heart by degrees became conscious,
though in part only, of the true expression of those proud
and lovely features. He could not mistake, without being
duller “than the fat weed that hugs itself at ease at Lethe's
wharf;” the collected indifference, not to say the cold pitiless
contempt, conveyed in that inflexible eye and utterly unchanging
cheek. “Surely Micer Codro hath spoken rightly,”
was the thought, the palsying thought, that rushed
through his brain as he looked upon her. “This woman hath

no heart; she regards the passion which shakes me as with
an ague, with the cold indifference of stone; nay, it would
almost seem that scorn was settled on her lip.”

He started to his feet as this conviction entered his mind.

“Thou hast not spoken, señora—I have not heard thee!
Speak to me, Teresa; let me not mistake thine eyes, and
do injustice to a heart which I so much worship. Tell me
that thou lovest me,—that I do not live in vain.”

Teresa answered this appeal, but the cold dignity and
the measured utterance of her lips betrayed the speech to
have been carefully studied, and as much intended to
wound the cavalier as to convey an answer to his prayer.

“Thou hast done me great service, Señor Vasco,—nay,
wherefore should I spare the confession? thou hast saved
my life.”

“Saved thy life, señora!” replied the astonished lover;
“saved thy life, Teresa!—ay, and I am happy and proud
that it was thy life, and that it was saved by me;—but I
have spoken, nay, I have thought, nothing of this. Oh,
wherefore shouldst thou?”

“And should I not be grateful to thee for this service?”
replied the maiden; “of a truth, I am, and I would have
thee believe it, Señor Vasco; it were a sad injustice to thee
if I were not grateful, for I believe thou didst put thy own
life in peril for the safety of mine. But, truly, thou shalt
not persuade me that the consideration of thy service to me
in this respect did not move thee to thy prayer but now.”

“Can it be, that thou think'st me thus base, Teresa?—
dost thou hold me the lowly clown, to demand a reward
for that service which the noble gentleman is every where
sworn to render unto the weak—to woman, to childhood,
to age. Oh, Teresa, thou hast not surely dwelt on this?
thou hast spoken it without thought, without deliberation.
In truth, thou dost not think that I have found courage to
claim thy affections, only because it has been my good fortune
to have saved thy life?”

“But I see not the baseness or the shame, Señor Vasco,”
replied the maiden, “even if it be as I have said.”

“There is both shame and baseness, Teresa, and I pray
thee to acquit me of it. I were no gentleman to make demand
of such reward for any service, save that of the heart.
The love which I proffer thee, dearest Teresa, in return for

thine, is the only claim which I have upon thee. Speak to
that—to that only—and say that thou requitest the claim.”

The cavalier resumed his devoted posture at her feet,
and would have resumed possession of her hand, but she
withheld it with greater resolution than before, and rose in
turn from the cushions on which she had heretofore kept
her seat.

“This must not be, Señor Vasco—thou dost too much
press upon me; I have not thought upon these matters. I
am but a young maiden to think of love; and I fear me,
that were I to speak now, it would give great vexation to
my uncle, and to my father, who is in Spain. Leave thy
quest, I pray thee, to some other season; meanwhile, I do
not deny that thou shalt see me as before.”

“It must not be, señora—my heart is too much in it for
delay. I could not again seek thee as before. I could not
brook to see other cavaliers basking in those smiles, which
are as dear to me as life. It is in desperation that I speak;
and coming to thee as I do, as one short of fortune, and I
may say almost frowned upon by fate, it cannot be, if thou
hast a feeling for me in thy heart, that thou canst forbear
to unfold it in a moment so precious and so perilous to all
my hope. I ask thee not to wed me now—I ask thee but
for thy love—thy promise to wed me, when I may claim
thee, even at the hands of thy father and thy uncle.”

“Alas! señor, thou knowest not the pride and haughty
spirit of Don Pedrarias Davila. He hath been too long the
favourite of the Court, where they call him El Galan, to
brook easily that his daughter should wed without his
knowledge, or pledge her troth to one of whom he will
make no count, if he be not of the nobility. He hath no
terms with his pride, and he is haughty, even to a saying,
among the royal household. It were not wise, it were not
well, with me, to do or say aught which should move him
to anger against me.”

There was much in this reply to disquiet and annoy the
cavalier. But he answered with a greater degree of calmness
than he felt, and it was only by a strong effort, that
he put such restraint upon his excited feelings.

“And if he be proud, Teresa, I am proud also; and if
he be noble, I am not less so, though the fortunes of my
family be poor. But I tell thee, señora, that if thou wed
me, then will I make his pride do me homage, and his nobility

shall vail to mine, for then will I achieve a name and
a triumph, which shall go through Spain like the sound of
a mighty bell, smitten by the hand of a god, on the pinnacle
of a high mountain. I am bold in this promise—I feel
its truth striving within me, and upon thy answer doth it
hang, whether this thing be soon or late in the performance.
I say to thee, dearest Teresa, that thy father's pride
shall grow loftier by means of my performance, and he
shall look to thee as the spring of a greatness, to which he
has never yet dared lift his own eye.”

The lofty form of the cavalier seemed to rise and expand
with the kindred feeling in his soul, as he gave utterance to
these glowing promises, not of vanity, but of the confident
and conscious greatness within him. But the weak mind,
and the inferior spirit of the woman whom he sought, failed
to rise to a due appreciation of the noble being before her.
A feeling of petty pride, to which she had been familiarized
from infancy, was outraged by his speech, and this offence,
alone, occupied all her thoughts.

“Thou speakest but slightly of Don Pedrarias, Señor
Vasco—but I forgive thee, for how shouldst thou know
aught of one who hath ever been a chief and favoured noble
in the court of the royal Ferdinand. It will be time
enough when thou hast achieved the greatness which is
now thy brag, that thou shouldst speak scornfully of my
father's pride and station; but thou wilt forgive me, if I
desire not to hear such speech till then, and then—”

“Thou wrong'st me—thou art angry, dearest Teresa—
I meant not to scorn thy father, or speak with slight of his
pride and station, which, alike, I honour. I would only
assure thee of an equal pride, and of a station which I shall
secure, and which shall justify thee to him, and to all
others, for the heart which thou wouldst bestow on me.
Wilt thou not hear me, Teresa?”

“Not now, Señor Vasco—I honour thy worth, and owe
thee many thanks for the succour which thou gavest me
but a day past, but I am not permitted to give myself. I
am but a young and thoughtless maiden, and to such it is
forbidden rashly to bind themselves with vows, which are
sometimes but irksome fetters, not the less heavy because
put on with their own hands. I have said, thou mayst see
and seek me as before, but—”

“It cannot be, señora!” replied the cavalier, in slow

and solemn accents. “The boy may trifle thus, and delay
the day of his strength, and suffer himself to be baffled
with specious words that have little signification to the
man. I am now thirty years old, senora, and I begin to
feel all the seriousness of life. The duties of my own
mind, my thoughts, feelings, my ambition, all press upon
me; and I feel that to leave thee in doubt, will have no
other effect than to keep me still the loiterer that I have
been for a long season—won to linger by a smile or a sigh,
and flattered into a forgetfulness of the realities of life by a
blandishing look, or a kind word, at the moment when the
heart is most soft and pliant for seduction. Thou hast
known me long, and canst as well determine at this moment
as at another, whether it be possible for thee to give
thy heart to my keeping. Once more, dearest Teresa, I
put mine own before thee—once more I implore thee to
receive my vow—to yield to my prayer, and, giving me
thy full and free pledge of affection, send me forth, with a
glad heart and fearless spirit, to the conquest of the mighty
ocean of the south.”

“Thou art too serious, señor—too solemn in what thou
sayst; and there must be time given me to grow grave
with the thoughts of this matter. Now, señor, the brightness
of the moon, which sprinkles her silver drops among
the leaves of yonder fig, invites me to gayer moods. Come,
I will give thee thy favourite ballad of El Marques. Here,
Ninetta.”

She struck the little gong beside her, as she said these
words, to summon her Indian female attendant, and while
her eye seemed to sport with, and find pleasure in, the
fixed and mournful gaze of his, she sang, from the ballad
of the Marquess of Mantua, a passage or two, that the cavalier
could scarcely fail to appropriate to himself.

“Teresa!” was the mournful expostulation of the cavalier—“Is
it thus, Teresa?”

She laughed, but continued:—

He fixed his eye intently upon her—his lips were pressed
together with energy and resolve, and the agitation which
had made him tremble at every moment of utterance before,
now passed entirely from his features.

“Teresa,” he exclaimed, “farewell—we see each other
for the last time.”

“Nay, señor, you are angry—”

“No, Teresa, sad, sorrowful, full of pity and regret, but
no anger. Farewell, we part for ever.”

He rushed from the apartment as he said these words,
and disappeared among the trees.

“Ah, well!” exclaimed the maiden, throwing herself
among the cushions,—“give me the guitar, Ninetta, the
man has almost made me as dull as himself; and to think
that I believe his threat or care for it. For ever, Ninetta—
said he not for ever?”

“Yes, `part for ever,' senora—`part for ever,' replied the
Indian, her white teeth gleaming through the dark lips
which shrouded them closely the moment ere she spoke.

“For ever, indeed! the man means three nights, and the
beginning of next week will be sure to bring him. Well—

There will be many others to supply his place, though
where the Señor Jorge could have been the while—and Don
Diego?—
Though, to be sure, I care as little for them as him. Love
indeed! and yet it is something strange that I have never
yet loved—is it not, Ninetta? You have loved, have you
not—your people used to love, did they not?”

“Ah, yes, my lady, till the Spaniard came, we had nothing
else but love.”

“It must be pretty employment certainly, if it did not
grow tedious sometimes. Señor Vasco is in a very dreadful
passion. I fancy I see him now rushing against the
trees, and stretching out his hand and swearing by Sant
Iago, and striking as if the Charaibee was in his path.

The song of the maiden was interrupted by a thrilling
shriek from without, which rang through the apartment,
and utterly swallowed up the sounds of the guitar.

“Madre de Dios! what a cry is that! Oh, Ninetta, what
can it be. Again—it comes again. It is the shriek of one
in pain—the pang of death! Again! again! Saints and
angels be with us! Would the Señor Vasco were here!
We alone, Ninetta,—my uncle!—it may be his voice—
his scream—he is in danger and there is no help for us.
Should it be the rebel Caonabo! Ah, Ninetta, do not leave
me—do not desert me in this danger. If it be Caonabo—
he is one of thy people—thou wilt save me. Let him not
do me harm, for I have been ever kind to thee.”

The proud woman was utterly prostrate. She clung to
the Indian, and acknowledging her woman dependence all
the while, she prayed for the return of Vasco Nunez. In
that moment of fear, she would freely have given her love
to be secure of his protection.