University of Virginia Library

5. CHAPTER V.

It was past midnight when Andres de Vasconselos returned to
the bohio or cottage, which was occupied by his brother and himself
His agitation was measurably subsided, but not his passions.
The quiet was only upon the surface. A violent storm
was still busy, raging in the depths of his spirit. His features
were rigidly composed, but stern almost to ferocity, and his
emotion was perhaps only concealed by the resolute compression
of his lips. It seemed as if he did not dare to trust to them
in speech. Though late, his brother had not yet retired for the
night. Philip de Vasconselos was busily engaged writing at the
table, the only one which the apartment contained. The light
by which he wrote was peculiar enough, however common to the
island. It consisted of a cluster of twelve or fifteen cocuyos,—
that larger sort of phosphorescent insect. These were enclosed in
a little wicker-work, or cage, made of the most delicate threads
of gold-wire. They emitted a light, of a color brilliantly green,
ample enough for all the purposes of the student. Philip looked
up, at the entrance of his brother, and discovered, at a glance,
that his emotions had been violently aroused and agitated. He
welcomed him, however, with a gentle word and smile, the answer
to which was at once brief and ungracious.

“Are you unwell, Andres?” was the inquiry, affectionately
made; for the elder brother was touched, rather than vexed, by
the repulsive accents of the other.

“And if I were, Philip de Vasconselos?” sternly and unsatisfactorily
replied the younger.

“And if thou wert, Andres! This to me, thy brother?”

“Why not? Why should grief or suffering of mine concern
thee? It is enough that thou hast neither.”

“Nay, Andres, that I myself am free from cares and sorrows
would be good reason only why I should seek to bring some
remedy to thine. But there is yet another cause for my anxiety.
The epistle, my brother, which is now growing beneath my
hands especially reminds me of my duty to succor and to comfort
thee. It is a letter to our mother, Andres; and I am even
now about to speak of thy health and happiness.”

“What warrant hast thou for assuming either? What knowest
thou of my happiness or health?”

“Nay, Andres, that thou hast vigorous and youthful health,
may not be denied. All who behold thee, speak loudly of thy
full cheek, thy elastic form, and the brightness of thine eye; and
these things speak for thy happiness also. It is vain to declare
the presence of a grief which leaves the beauty and vigor of the
form unwasted and untouched. Surely, my brother, thou art
not unhappy?”

“Why troublest thou me with such questions, Philip? Write
to our mother whatever it pleaseth thee to write. Say what thou
wilt. It matters but little to me what thou sayest!”

“But it matters much to her, Andres,” replied the other,
somewhat reproachfully. “Besides, I dare not speak to our
mother indifferently of him, her favorite son, whom she so commended
especially to my affection as a younger brother.”

“Philip de Vasconselos, both thou and our mother have erred
greatly when ye claim to believe that I need guardianship. I
tell thee, Señor, I am, like thyself, a man,—and fully capable of
taking care of my own health and fortunes.”

The reply to this rude speech was full of a sad solemnity.

“Something hath vexed thee, Andres, making thee unjust to
thy brother and ungrateful to the tender fondness of thy mother
for thy youth. Thou wilt find it less easy, when thou recoverest
thy calm of temper, to forgive thyself than to procure her forgiveness
or mine. I will finish my letter, making my own
report of thy condition, which, until this hour, Andres, hath

seemed to all the island, as to myself, such as it would be most
grateful to any mother to behold or know.”

“As thou wilt; and yet!—Look at me, Philip de Vasconselos!
—look at me, ere thou writest down any delusive falsehood for
my mother's eyes! Look I like one whom the Gods have
marked for happiness?”

He approached the table as he spoke, and grasped, with some
violence, the hand that held the pen. The eyes of the brothers
encountered. Those of Andres were blood-shot, full of rage,
and expressive of a fury that seemed about to break through all
restraint. Philip rose, as he caught the fearful expression in the
other's face. His own features were calm and firm, but filled
with a tender concern and sympathy, such as spoke for the gentle
and noble attachment with which the elder brother regarded
the younger, and the favorite of their mother.

“Andres,” he said, “I know not that I am wise, or like to be
successful in asking thy confidence. Of late thou hast seemed to
regard me rather as an enemy than a brother —”

“Thou art! Thou art!” was the wild and reckless answer.

“Nay, I cannot answer thee, Andres, by any assurance in
words. It becomes not me patiently to strive to disprove thy
injustice. I look upon such speech as a sort of madness, on thy
part, rather than a wrong done to me. Enough, that I tell thee
I am here, ready, as thou hast always found me before, to serve
thy cause, to help thy progress, to fight thy battles—if need
be —”

“I ask not thy help in battle, Philip de Vasconselos. I am
equal to my own danger. But thou art willing to help my progress—to
serve my cause?—How sayest?—Eh!”

“Yea! with all my strength, and all my heart!” was the eager
reply.

“Hearken! wilt thou deign then to seek on my behalf, and to
solicit from Don Balthazar de Alvaro, the hand of his niece in
marriage? Wilt thou do this, Philip de Vasconselos?”

“Verily, of a truth will I do this, if the lady hath authorized

thee so to solicit;” was the answer, in somewhat subdued accents.

“If the lady hath authorized thee to solicit!” was the mocking
repetition of the infuriate young man: “Go to, Philip de Vasconselos,
I well know that thou wouldst not, ay, thou couldst
not, serve me in this. Would I need to solicit the favor of the
uncle, were I sure of the favor of his niece?”

“Thou wouldst surely not seek the one, were the other denied
thee?”

“Not through thy eloquence, surely, Señor Don Philip, lest
thou shouldst haply forget thy client's claims in the prosecution
of thy own.”

“Andres, my brother,” said the other calmly, but with a sterner
show of expression than had before been apparent in his countenance,—“it
will not be easy to make me angry with thee. It
is in thy madness that thou dost me this gross injustice,—and I
forgive it. But let us speak no more in regard to this matter.
It needs not that I should tell thee what thou seemest already to
understand, that my affections have been placed, as well as thine,
upon the same lovely lady. I deny not this, though I have deemed
it only proper that I should be silent on the subject, seeing thy
secret in the same moment with mine own. It is surely our misfortune
that we have so loved. But I resolved, from the moment
when I discovered the bent of thy affections, that the field should
be open to thee from any obstruction of mine. I stood not in
thy way. I offered no rivalship to thee,—and, while thou hast
nightly sought the dwelling of the Lady Olivia, it was enough for
me to know that such was the course of thy footsteps, to turn
mine in the opposite direction. This very night, when I learned
that thou wast her guest, I left the garden of the lady—”

“Ha! thou wast there,—and thou hast heard?” was the interruption.

“I have heard nothing! When I found the verandah occupied
by thyself and Nuno de Tobar, with his betrothed, I turned
away in silence, seeking nothing farther. I left thee to thy own

progress, with the resolution to give thee all the opportunity;
and, if success were thine, to bury in silence, in the depths of
mine own heart, the secret affection which has troubled it. Thy
injustice hath not suffered this—”

A deep groan from the younger brother interrupted the speaker
for a moment. The latter would have proceeded, but Andres
broke in.

“Enough! Enough, my brother,” he exclaimed with a returning
sentiment of justice. “I am a madman and a fool. I
have wronged thee! Pursue thy fortunes. It needs not any
longer that thou shouldst yield thy hopes or purposes to mine.
This night hath resolved me. It finds me denied, where I had
hoped most strongly. It finds me destitute, where I had set all
my fortunes on the venture. I dare not wish that thou shouldst
be more fortunate. I am not generous enough for that. Yet I
stand in thy path no longer. Within the hour I have made a new
resolution; I will continue with Hernan de Soto. I will go with
him into Florida. In Cuba I should find but wreck and sorrow only.”

“Is it so, my brother!” said Philip sadly.

“Pity me not, if thou wouldst not madden me. Thou knowest
my pride and temper. Beware, lest I forget what is due to thee
—lest I forget thy justice, thy generosity, ever shown to me, even
when my perversity was most. Enough, now that my mood inclines
to thee, to do thee right, Philip; although I dread to think
that I no longer love thee as I did. I see thee destined for success
where I have failed—where I have been crushed and confounded
with unexpected denial. I fear—I feel—that, but for
thee, this had not been the case. Thou hast passed before me
as thou hast ever done before. It matters nothing that thou
shouldst tell me of thy forbearance. Thou hast given way to
me—thou hast yielded me opportunity—and, in thy secret heart,
perchance, it is like thou felt that thou couldst do so with safety.
I know the strength of thy will and hope, Philip de Vasconselos,
and fully believe that thou hast built thy expectations upon a confidence
in thy superior fortune, which might boldly give every
opportunity to mine—”

“Thou still wrong'st me, Andres!” mildly.

“Perhaps, perhaps!—do I not even wrong myself as well as
thee? We will speak no more of this. Enough, that the field
lies before thee—that I cross thy path no longer—that I go
on the expedition with De Soto—and as, most likely, thou wilt
be successful where I have failed, so thou wilt remain here, and
we will cast our shadows no more upon each other. Write this to
our mother, and say to her that my soul is now wholly yielded
to the ambition of conquest. Tell her what thou wilt of those
dreams of Dorado, which woo the adventurer to the wilds of the
Appalachian.”

“Brother —”

“Think not that I would wrong thee, Philip. Is it not enough
that even in my passion and my pang, I acknowledge thy forbearance?
I blame thee not, even while I curse in bitterness thy always
better fortune. It is thy fortune that prevents my love,
and not thyself.”

“But thou dost love me, Andres?”

“I know not that!—How should I love thee, when thou hast
been the barrier to my love?—the only one passion on which all
my affections have been set!”

“But I know not this, Andres; I have never spoken word of
love or tenderness to the Lady Olivia.”

“But thou wilt speak both; and she will hear thee, and respond
to thee in accents like thine own. No more of this, lest I grow
wild and foolish, and curse thee, Philip, for thy better fortune.”

“Nay, thou shalt not, brother,” and he threw his arms tenderly
about the unreasonable youth, who submitted but only for a moment
to the embrace; he shook himself free from it in the next
instant. Philip's eyes followed him with a deep and melancholy
interest, full of sorrow and affection, as he saw him preparing
once more to leave the cabin.

“Whither go you, my brother, at this late hour?”

“Forth! Forth once more into the night!”

“Nay, Andres; were it not better thou shouldst seek for
sleep?”

“I cannot sleep! Thou knowest not what a stifling fullness
harbors here—and here!” was the reply of Andres, smiting his
head and bosom as he spoke. “I must hurry forth! I must
have air and solitude!”

With these words he disappeared from the cabin. Philip de
Vasconselos followed him to the door, and his eyes anxiously
pursued the retreating form by the imperfect starlight, until it
had wholly gone from sight. The elder brother then returned to
the table, where, seating himself, he rested his cheek upon his
palm, and sunk into a fit of melancholy, which was of mixed
character, at once pleasing and painful. The perverse and willful
pride of his brother, his suspicious and jealous temper, must
necessarily have been productive of great grief to one by whom
he was earnestly beloved; but it was in vain that Philip de Vasconselos
tried to stifle the feeling of satisfaction which enlivened
and pleasantly agitated his bosom, as he thought of the rejection
by Olivia de Alvaro of his brother's suit. Love is certainly
one of the most selfish and exacting of all the passions in the heart
of youth; perhaps because it is the passion which most completely
absorbs and swallows up the rest. Philip was really
fond of Andres; fond of him by reason of natural sympathies,
as a brother; fond of him by habit and association—fond of
all that was manly in his character—proud of his spirit and youthful
beauty—fond of him, on account of their mother, and particularly
so, as, for so long a time, he had been the guardian of his
youth and fortunes. But his heart reproached him for the still
grateful feeling of satisfaction, which he vainly endeavored to subdue,
and which continually reminded him that, in this quarter,
there was no longer an obstacle to his own successes. It was
to overcome this thought that he proceeded to resume the letter
which he had been writing to his mother when Andres had first made
his appearance. A few additional lines only were written, when
he flung the reed from him and closed the portfolio. His nervous
system was in too much agitation to suffer him to continue at
an employment which particularly demanded the utmost calm

of the spirit. He went once more to the entrance of the cabin,
and soliloquized, as if his brother were still in sight.

“Unhappy child of passion! forever erring and repenting—only
to repeat thy error; what a destiny is thine! How shall I watch
and save thee, when it is ever thus, that some cruel suspicion, the
offspring of thy wild temper and fierce will, continually begets
thy hostility against the hand that is outstretched in thy service!
Thou wilt go with Hernan de Soto, and it may be that I shall
not be with thee. Ha! Is this, then, a doubt? Is it so certain that
mine shall be a better fortune with Olivia de Alvaro than was
thine? She has refused thee,—thou, as brave, as noble, as comely
as any of the gentlemen of Castile! Will she be more likely
to hearken me? It is possible; and I have a hope, a hope in
which I gladden—though I shame to own it,—based upon a brother's
denial and defeat! Is there reason for this hope? Do I
not delude myself—does not Nuno de Tobar, when he encourages
my passion, does he not delude me also? The thought
that I too shall be scorned, makes it easy to pardon the violent
passions of my poor Andres. Well! We shall shortly see!
Now that he no longer pursues the quest, it will be for me to
know what is my fate. A few days, and it may be that I also
go with thee, my brother, into the wild forests of the Apalachian.
And yet, were there other fields of venture, Hernan de Soto
should have no help of mine. He hath favored, rather than
frowned upon, these jealousies of his Spanish followers. They
hold me in their hate, if not their disesteem; and envy me the
very skill and knowledge upon which they build somewhat for
their hope of success. Let Olivia but smile upon my prayer,
and I fling them off, with as little regard as I would fling off the
most worthless thing, in my dislike or indifference!”

We need not follow Philip de Vasconselos in his soliloquy.
Enough is given to show the temper of his mind and character.
We will leave him to his slumbers, such as he may snatch, in
the brief interval which now remains between the midnight and
the dawn; while we retrace our footsteps once more to the
dwelling of Don Balthazar de Alvaro.

It might have been an hour after we saw him retiring, silently,
from his place of espionage among the groves which surrounded
the verandah where his niece had received her guests, that we
find him returning to the same spot. But it was no longer
to find concealment and to play the spy that he now appeared.
His step was set down firmly and fearlessly, and his lips parted
with a pleasant catch of Castilian song, as he drew near the
shrubbery. Don Balthazar was no mean musician. With no sensibilities
such as are vulgarly assumed to be absolutely necessary
to musical endowment, he was held to be something of a master,
and could shape corresponding melodies to the most difficult ditties,
with a readiness not unlike that of the Italian improvisatori.
His song on the present occasion, which might have been a
spontaneous utterance for aught we know, was sufficiently loud
to be heard within the dwelling. But it did not reach the senses
of Olivia, who lay stretched upon the divan, upon which we
beheld her sink suddenly at the departure of Andres de Vasconselos,
under the burden of a nameless sorrow, for which, with
Beauty in her endowment, and Devotion at her feet, it would be
very difficult to account. She beheld not the entrance of her uncle,
and yet she slept not. Her eyes were open, but the glance was
vacant; `the sense was shut.' It was fixed within, upon the
struggling passions of her own heart, and took no heed of external
objects. Don Balthazar approached her—he stood before
her—he spoke to her, yet she heard him not. He paused quietly,
and surveyed her. Very peculiar was the character of that
glance which he bestowed upon the lovely outline and perfect
beauty of the features within his gaze. It might be pride and
exultation, such as a father feels beholding the unsurpassable
charms of a favorite daughter. But there was something still
that was equivocal in the expression of his features. There was
a mysterious significance in that look, at once of steady and
circumspect watch, yet of eagerness and satisfaction, which baffled
the curiosity that it continued to provoke. Some moments
were consumed in this serpent-like gaze, and all the while she
remained absolutely unconscious of his presence. She was only

aroused from this unconsciousness as he sat himself quietly beside
her, and folding his arms about her waist, lifted her with an
air of great affection in his embrace. Then it was that she
started, looked wildly about her for a moment, and then, distinguishing
the intruder, fixed upon him a countenance expressive
of any feeling but that of tenderness or regard. In an instant
the full, quick, keen vitality, came like a flood of light into her
great dark eyes; her lips quivered, and were suddenly closed
fast, as if with sudden resolution. She started from the cushions,
and shook herself free from his grasp, as if he had been a
viper.

“You!” she exclaimed in a tone of suspicion and apprehension.

“Even so, Olivia. Who else? But what now? Why this
passion? What has vexed you? What startles you?”

“How long have you been here?” she asked wildly.

“But this moment,” he answered: “I thought you slept.”

She drew a deep sigh, as if suddenly relieved.

“It is late,” she said; “I will retire.”

“Late! what of that? Have you any cares for to-morrow?
Sit, my beauty, and tell us who have been your guests—who
hath been here? What are your tidings?”

“I have none,” she answered coldly and timidly, still moving
to retire.

“Now, saints and demons! what is in the child!” he exclaimed,
as he endeavored once more to detain her in his grasp.
She shrunk from him with a visible shudder. A heavy scowl
passed over his forehead, and he spoke with closed teeth.

“What! still in thy Biscayan temper? Nay, nay, my precious
one, thou shalt not leave me thus.”

“Suffer me to go, uncle,” she entreated, as he caught her hand.

“Why, so I will, when thou hast answered me what has put
thee in this temper again? Methought, when I left thee last, that
thou hadst been sobered — hadst grown wiser. What has
wrought thee into this passion, at a moment when brave cavaliers
grow humble in thy train? Or dost thou repent thee for

having dismissed with denial this famous young gallant of Portugal?”

What a change in her aspect followed this speech from his
lips! But a moment before she exhibited aversion, but it was
coupled with timidity and a feeble, tearful apprehension. In a
moment the timidity was gone—the tear—the apprehension.
Her eyes flashed full with indignation as she replied:—

“What! thou hast again descended to the office of the spy?
Thou hast once more placed thyself in secret watch upon my
actions?”

“Not upon thy actions, child—not upon thee, but upon those
who approach thee. I know thy danger from these gallants, and
it is in degree as I fear them, my Olivia, that I keep watch
over thee, as thy guardian—thy protector, child—”

He renewed the attempt to take her hand as he spoke.

“Touch me not,” she cried. “Oh, wolf assigned to keep the
lamb!”

“What wouldst thou have, child? It is surely needful that
I hold ever present in mind the treasure that I am set to keep.”

“Oh, fiend! and thou smil'st as thou speak'st thus dreadfully.”

“Nay, nay, not a fiend, Olivia, only, I grant you, not exactly
an angel. Believe me, I am not a whit worse than most other men.”

“Thou slanderest thy race.”

“No, truly, no. Most guardians, having such precious treasure
in their keeping, would take care of it as I have done. Have I
not kept thee well, my child—as tenderly, as closely? Shall
others rob me of the treasure before mine own eyes? Ah,
child! if I loved thee less, I had been spoiled of thee before.
It is in my fondness, Olivia,—”

“Oh! cease to vex me with these cruel taunts! What gain is it
to thee now, that thou shouldst add a sting to a sorrow? If to
thee I owe the loss of hope, why jibe me ever with this loss?
Why hold before mine eyes the terrible picture of the woe
thou hast planted forever in my soul? Forbear thy mockeries.
Suffer me to leave thee—suffer me to sleep—sleep—sleep! if
this be possible to-night.”

“Nay, I would not mock thee, Olivia. I but speak to thee the
language of a sober truth. I do, indeed, love thee, my child—
love thee as my own—would have thee ever as mine own, and
thou mightst see in this fondness the secret of that distrust which
dogs the heels of all others. Give not way to this blindness and
madness, which can profit neither thee nor me, and see the love
which I feel for thee, my child!”

“Peace! Peace! thou maddenest me when thou talkest to
me of thy love!”

“A truce to thy passion, Olivia. Thou art not wise in its
indulgence. It spoils thy beauty. It takes too much from thy
charm of face, as it disturbs the peace of thy heart. Thus ruffled,
thou remind'st me painfully of thy Biscayan mother, who was fiercer
in her wrath than the hurricane of these tropic countries. She
would suddenly grow convulsed like thyself, with a tempest that
threatened everything with destruction; but she was not, as thou
art, capable of soothing all down again to the most beautiful
repose!”

“Her passion were much the most fitting to mate with thine!
O! would that she were here! Mother! O! mother! Where
art thou now? See'st thou thy child—into what hands—into
what fate she has fallen—without hope—as one who drowns,
with all the seas upon him, and no strength to struggle upward
into life?”

She threw herself once more upon the cushions of the divan,
her face downward. One single sob escaped her, but one, for
at that moment the hand of Don Balthazar, in seeming tenderness,
was placed upon her neck. His touch seemed to recall the
more fiery feeling with which she had at first received him. She
started up, and repulsed him with a spasmodic fierceness.

“Thy touch is like so much poison! Beware, lest I go mad!
Thou wilt drive me too far, as if thou hadst not already driven me
to perdition! Canst thou not pity—wilt thou not spare me? I
have been weak—I know that I am weak still—but I feel that I
have a strength in me that may become fearful for mischief, if
not for good. Uncle, it were better, far better, ere you rouse

that strength into exercise, that you should drive your dagger
into both of our hearts.”

The brow of Don Balthazar was contracted; but a determined
effort dissipated the cloud. His róle was that of conciliation.
He was not unwilling to acknowledge and to respect that fearful
strength which she asserted herself to possess, though latent. He
felt that he had gone too far. He had given her no credit for
that character of which she was now making a fearful exhibition.
Nor, indeed, had he hitherto found any reason to suspect the
presence of such fierce energies. She had hitherto borne herself
so mildly, if not feebly, that he had come rather to slight, if
not to despise, the weakness of a nature, which had been almost
wholly controlled by his superior will. That he had been so
successful hitherto, in this respect, was due to causes already
glanced at—the seclusion of her mode of life, her extreme youth,
and her imperfect education. The instincts of her heart, suddenly
springing into birth, had opened to her eyes a new survey, and
filled her soul with a consciousness not less overwhelming and
oppressive than strange. He was beginning to discover the full
extent of her developments, when it was perhaps too late. Regarding
her as a child, a pliant creature in his hands, he had but
too much given way to that satirical temper which marked his
character. It was now his aim to soothe. He was not practised
in this art, but he seriously addressed himself to the endeavor.
“Truly, dear Olivia, thou art most perverse to-night. Is it at the
moment when I am most grateful to thee, that thou wouldst repulse
my acknowledgments? I do but seek to show how greatly
I prize that dutiful affection which alone, I doubt not, has caused
thee to dismiss this young and insolent knight of Portugal.”

“Dutiful affection!” she exclaimed, interrupting him with a
bitter look and accent, which effectually interpreted into scornful
irony the two words which she had borrowed from his speech.

“And was it not this, Olivia?”

“Once for all, Señor, let this folly cease. There is no policy
in this hypocrisy. Thou canst deceive me no longer. I have
no need to deceive thee. We know each other. Thou knowest

me—thou hast sounded the hollows of my heart, and the knowledge
thou hast gained has been fatal to all my hopes. Thou
knowest that I owe thee neither duty nor affection—that, if anything,
I owe thee hate only—an unforgiving hate that should
dream of nothing but revenge. But I have no such dream.
Give me but peace—such peace, at least, as may spring from
thy forbearance, and if I meet thee with smiles no longer, I shall
at least assail thee with no reproaches. I rejected the suit of
Don Andres de Vasconselos simply because— alas! why
should I furnish thee with a reason for this rejection? Enough,
that it was with no regard to thy interests, or thy desires, that
I was moved to decline his prayer.”

“And yet, that thou didst so, is a great gain to me, as well as
to De Soto. Failing thee and thy hacienda, this knight will now
be ready to seek for a slower fortune amongst the Apalachian
of Florida. We had lost him but for this. He and his brother
both—that more wily adventurer—had set earnest eyes upon
thy possessions. I doubt not that they knew well the number
of thy slaves and acres, and the exact annual product of thy
lands.”

“Oh! be silent, Señor—be silent, for very shame. It befits
not thee, least of all, to impute such sordid passions to these
noble gentlemen.”

Even at this moment, when fully convinced of the necessity of
conciliation, and really desirous not to offend, the habitual sneer
of the uncle obtained the ascendency.

“And thou persuadest thyself—though I wonder not—that it
is thy charms alone which have wrought upon the affections of
these knights of Portugal.”

The sarcasm smote sharply on the woman sensibilities of the
damsel. She replied instantly:

“I think not of it! I would that I could think of neither them
nor thee. Small pleasure, indeed, do I find in thinking of thee,
and smaller the profit, in such condition as is mine, in giving
thought to knight or noble, on whose scutcheon there rests no
stain. Why wilt thou madden me with these things? If, for a

moment, I have been weak and vain enough to think of any noble
gentleman, Heaven knows how suddenly and soon my own
heart has smitten me for the guilt and folly of such fancies. But
if the deadlier tongue of Remorse were not speaking ever at my
heart this language, there were rebuke sufficient in the consciousness
that, whatever speech is addressed to my ear, must be
heard also by thine;—that even did I presume to love, or to
listen to the pleadings of a lover, the precious sweetness of
such intercourse must be without secret or security. Thy watch
is ever upon my footsteps, and thy miserable spies —”

“Nay, but thou wrong'st me, child. I have set no eyes to
watch thee but mine own, and mine watch thee only because thou
art so precious in their sight.”

She gave him but a single look, so cold—so freezingly sad,
that he felt all its profound scorn and denial.

“Of a truth, Olivia, it is so. Hadst thou been my own child,
I could not have loved thee better”

“Father! Mother! Hear him! Alas! wherefore was I not
thine own! That might have secured me from this fate! And
yet, I know not! I know not what thou holdest sacred! I know
not what could have been safe in thy hands, from thy bad and
brutal nature. Oh! Señor Balthazar—I will call thee no more
mine uncle—when I look upon thee, as I do now, with eyes fairly
opened upon thy cruelties and crime,—I feel a doubt, a dread,
lest I be in the power of some fearful emissary of the enemy of
souls, whose study is how to cut me off from repentance and salvation.
Mother of God, be merciful! Jesu, descend to me and
cover me with thy holy shelter. Oh! I feel that I shall madden,
unless the white spirits whom I pray for shall come quickly to
my aid!”

A passion of tears followed this wild apostrophe, and somewhat
relieved the swollen heart and the overburdened brain. Don
Balthazar felt that he must pause. He did not dare to address
her in the moment of the paroxysm. He waited, watching her
patiently, till her tears flowed freely, and then subduing himself
to his policy—his bitter reckless mood to the necessity before

him, and with which he felt that it would not do to trifle farther,
—he carefully adapted his speech to the task of soothing. In
some measure he succeeded. She grew calmer, and milder, and
he now approached her where she sat upon the divan, and without
interruption, save from her sobs occasionally, continued the
glozing speech which was to quiet her anger. She answered him
but seldom, and then capriciously—sometimes with tears only,
and again with some burst of indignant speech, that drove him
back to his first positions.

“Oh! why wilt thou, dearest Olivia, give way to these passionate
phrensies? of what profit to conjure up such wild and
gloomy reflections? They nothing help your situation or mine.
They restore us nothing that is lost, but tend rather to embitter
the only consolations that remain to us.”

“What are they?” she asked fiercely.

“To economize the better feelings. To forgive where we can
—to spare when we can—”

“Ah! I owe thee much for thy forbearance.”

“I feel that I deserve thy chiding; but, dearest child, I will do
better. I will give thee no cause for anger henceforward. Only
be merciful.—I owe thee much, Olivia,—much for the past.—
That thou hast sent off this young gallant with denial, leaves me
to-night with a light heart.”

“And mine! mine is breaking!”—was the wild finish which
her lips sobbed out at the conclusion of his sentence. The deep
despairing agony of her manner admirably suited the language
of her lips.

“Nay, nay, my child; not so! The world is but begun with
thee. There is sunshine for thee, and flowers in abundance. Thou
wilt forget—”

“Never! never! Oh! would it could break, break at once,
that I may feel no more this terrible struggle—this pang that is
worse than death! But its doom is not to break. There must
be more agonies. I must undergo many deaths,—and that blight
of all—that accursed bitter blight!”

The picture of her grief was beyond all practice. There could

be no question of the terrible earnestness of her woe. With her
face buried in the cushions of the divan, she lay silent or sobbing,
without an effort to move, until he endeavored once more to raise
her up. Again she betrayed that shuddering horror at his touch,
which she had shown several times before; and, firmly repulsing
him, she again abandoned herself to her afflictions. His soothing
was in vain, or only offered new provocation to her sorrows.

“Olivia, dearest child, wherefore now this unwonted passion?
What grief hast thou now, that thou hadst not yesterday, and the
day before?—”

“Ay, Señor,” she answered, with a fearful vehemence, “and
last week, and months agone, even to that dark and damnable
hour, when—”

And she closed the sentence abruptly, covering her face with
her hands as she did so, as if to shut from sight some terrible
presence.

“Olivia—dear child!”

“Child me not! I am not thy child. Thou hast known me as
a child only to crush me as a woman. Away, I entreat thee—
let me never see thee more. If thou wouldst not drive me
into absolute phrensy, I implore thee to forbear—to depart forever.
It is those days, those weeks, those months, when in my
ignorance and weakness, I had not felt these agonies, as I feel
them now, to which I owe them all! Blot these out, Señor, from
my memory! make me forget them, I command thee, or take
this dagger, and thrust it into this heart, which thou hast filled
with death and misery. Do it, uncle—do it, if thou hast one
spark of the man within thy bosom—if, indeed, thou hast one
feeling of pity in thy soul for the poor orphan whose sire drew
milk from the same bosom with thy own.”

She clutched at the weapon in his girdle, and would have seized
it, but that he grappled her by the wrist, and held her fast.

“Oh! thou shouldst do it—such a blow would never shame
thy dagger. If thou wilt not, hence! Let me never see thee
more. If thou canst not bring me the forgetfulness I implore,
thou art my bane only, and canst bring no remedy. Thy words

of soothing I despise. As I live, uncle, I loathe thy presence.
Thy voice sounds hissingly in mine ears., like that of the serpent,
who carries a deadly poison beneath his tongue.”

The inspired priestess, drunk with the sacred fury, never looked
so sublimely fearful. Her great flashing eyes, lighting up the
paleness of her cheeks—her widely distended nostril, her lofty
and erect figure, and the wild but beautiful action of her frame,
actually seemed to confound and overwhelm her companion. He
spoke—but how feeble now were his words of soothing—his entreaties—his
arguments!

“Olivia! This is, indeed, wilful. Of what avail now all this
horror, this professed loathing?”

“Professed! Oh! Man, man! Vain man! What seest
thou in me at this moment, to make thee dream that I could say
anything that I do not feel! But of what avail thou ask'st? Of
what avail, indeed, except for curses—perhaps for death! But
that the grief can bring no relief is sufficient cause for suffering.
Could it avail—could anything avail—would I suffer thus?
Would I seek no remedy? Would I not go through the furnace
in its search, and gladly give up the life which is tutored
to reconcile itself to all manner of sin and sorrow, as it is made to
see that nothing can avail! Oh! Blessed Virgin, if my lips may
now be permitted to name thy name, and to appeal to thee, what
hast thou suffered me to see? In the brief space of a single week
mine eyes have opened to the truth. I behold now what I neither
saw nor dreamed before. Oh! Señor,—brother of my wretched
father, what hast thou done! Thou hast slain the very hope—the
life of hope and happiness of his only child, given to thee in
blessings and in sacred trust, all of which thou hast trampled under
foot in scorn.”

“Not so, dearest Olivia. Thou seest this matter through a false
medium. The evil is not of the magnitude which thou deem'st it.
Who is there to betray our secret? Who is it that knows —”

“Is it not enough that I know,—that I feel—that the dreadful
consciousness is crushing me to the earth, making my soul a
thing of constant fear, and apprehensions the most terrible?”

The wisdom of Don Balthazar was again at fault. He could
not forbear a remark, which, however true in respect to the subject
of her griefs, was yet very unseasonably referred to in the
present condition of her feelings.

“Olivia, this dreadful consciousness of which thou speakest,
never possessed thee until thine eyes beheld this Philip de Vasconselos.
Beware—my child, lest —”

The fearful spirit was roused again within her. She did not
suffer him to finish.

“And I say to thee, Balthazar de Alvaro, unworthy and
treacherous brother, base and cruel guardian—shameless and perjured
man—do thou beware! If I am to be crushed and cursed
by thee, I will not be reproached or threatened by thee! Thou
sayest justly, indeed, that until I beheld this knight of Portugal,
I did not well conceive the full extent of the wrong which thou
hadst done me. That thy perfidy, thy stealth, thy cunning, thy
pernicious malice and fatal power, which had wrought upon me
in moments of oblivion, had done me the cruellest of evils, I well
know! My tears, my reproaches have not been spared, as thou
well knowest, from the beginning! But of the awful wrecks of
which thou wert the sole cause, I had little knowledge. Mine
eyes are opened, and, as thou sayest, with the moment of my
knowledge of Philip de Vasconselos! Oh! make not my heart
feeble by compelling my tongue to repeat that name. It was
only when I knew him that I began darkly and hopelessly to
know myself. I then, for the first time, heard the terrible voice
speaking to my conscience as if from the depths of my own heart.
It is in the birth of what had been my blessing and my joy, that
I am made terribly sensible of what is now my privation and my
curse! Enough! It is wonderful that I have speech for this! But
thy wanton malice hath opened all the floods of my indignation.
No more to-night! Let us separate—though I go not to sleep.
Sleep! sleep! can I ever sleep again? Thou seest me changed;
and such a change! I am no more a child,—blind, weak, submissive—overcome
when my innocent sleep dreamed nothing of
danger, and blasted by a guilt in which, Holy Mother, be my

witness, I had no share! I am a woman now. I have risen to
the highest intelligence of woman, only through despair. I now
know thee for what thou truly art—base, brutal,—and oh! shame
on thy pretence of manhood, with a corrupt selfishness that would
keep me still a victim!”

“Olivia!”

“Follow me not—touch me not—look no more upon me—if
thou art wise, and wouldst not see me a maniac beneath thine
eyes, raving aloud to the abashed people of thy and my miserable
secret.”

Thus speaking, with arms extended as if for judgment, and
eyes flashing almost supernatural fires, she waved him passionately
aside, and defying the obstruction, which he was too much
paralyzed to offer, darted headlong from the apartment.