University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

She was gone from sight before he recovered himself. He
stood abashed—stunned rather—pale and almost trembling, at
the unexpected fury he had awakened. At length, but slowly,
he began to recover himself; and his gathering thoughts betrayed
themselves in broken soliloquy.

“This grows more serious. It must be looked to. It is a
danger to be hushed by the shortest method, if it passes not off
like all the rest. But I must prepare myself for the worst. She
must not be suffered to destroy me, even if she resolves to destroy
herself. I must cure these violences of passion—and I will.”

His hand, perhaps unconsciously, griped the handle of his
dagger. A moment after, he seized hurriedly the light, and left
the room, pursuing, at first, the passage which Olivia had entered,
as if about to proceed also in the direction of her chamber;
but he paused almost as soon as he had entered it, wheeled about,
passed once more into the apartment which he had left, and,
opening a door in the opposite wall, entered another passage conducting
to his own chamber. Here, setting the light down upon
a table, he threw himself into a light chair of bamboo work, and
with so little heed, and so heavily, that the slight wicker frame
of the fabric creaked and threatened to sink beneath his weight.

“I was a fool,” he said, soliloquizing moodily. “I was but a
fool to confront her in her paroxysm. It is then that she hath as

little measure in her anger as her fierce Biscayan mother. Yet
how lately hath this sort of fury developed itself in her. How
wonderfully to-night did she resemble her. There was the same
dark, fiery eye, sending out sudden flashes; the same sudden
swelling of the great vein across her forehead, till it seemed big
to bursting; the same show of the teeth, gleaming white, close
set, and gnashing at moments the thin lips that seemed to part
and turn over, like those of a hungry tiger. What a resemblance!
I never saw the like before. Yet, when I beheld the likeness,
that I should have dealt in the old sarcasm; that I should not
have forborne. I should have known enough of the mother, to
have waited for the moment of her exhaustion. Who takes the
fish will do wisely not to thwart him in the struggle. Why
should he not struggle, since it avails nothing against his capture?
He is so much the sooner in the toils. Let him beat the water
while he lists, until it becomes easier to die than to strive. Such
is the true art of dealing with women in their passion, especially
when they carry tempers of such intensity. It is in her exhaustion
only that she yields; and the exhaustion comes the sooner
where the flurry is so extreme. With opposition, she finds new
strength; but, taken in the lull, with fondness or persuasion, and
she cannot help but yield!”

He paused, rested his elbow on the table, and supported his
brow upon his hands for a while in silent meditation. A few moments
only passed thus; his mood was too much excited for quiet.
He started up from his seat, and again instantly resumed.

“Something has gone wrong,” he muttered. “She hath discovered
something of the secret. How much, it behooves that I
should know. She knows the worst, that is certain; but can she
have found out the agencies? I must summon Anita. That hag
of hate hath not betrayed me, I know. She too much loves the
evil to do aught which should prevent its exercise. She too
much hated the mother to be merciful to the daughter. She hath
too willingly served me in this matter to have repented of her
share in the performance. But she may have kept her secret
loosely; she may have been watched; that Olivia has suspected

her, I know; and, with suspicion once awakened, an intense spirit
will be sleepless till it makes discovery. I must see and examine
her.”

He touched a tassel depending from the wainscot; then resumed
his soliloquy, pursuing another train of thought.

“These accursed knights of Portugal! They vex me on every
side. She hath dismissed one of them, but he is no less a trouble.
Will he stay content with one rejection? These lovers,—
deeply filled with the one image, and of rare arrogance,—are not
easily satisfied with denial; but I will yet put my foot upon their
necks; or, failing in this, I shall thrust my dagger to their hearts.
Every man is haunted by some viper, or spider—venomous reptile,
or spiteful insect. These are mine! Yet, but for this wonderful
change in her, they should not give me cause of fear. But
yesterday, so meek; and now, a tigress! Well, there is always,
at the worst, one remedy, and this cannot fail me!”

Thus speaking, he drew forth his dagger from the sheath, and
contemplated the weapon darkly as he spoke. There was that in
his manner, and the cold intelligence in his eye, during this survey,
which denoted the reckless hardihood of a nature, originally
cold and selfish, and which had been thoroughly indurated by a
long and terrible criminal experience. It is not for us to go back
in his history, and recall the events of a life which have no absolute
connection with the progress which is before us. Enough,
that the past, once known, would leave us little doubt of the cool
indifference with which the bold, bad man before us, would school
himself to the execution of any crimes which it became his policy
to contemplate. See him as he turns the dagger, and passes his
finger over the rust-spots that darken its point, and dot the blade
freely upward on both sides! A fierce smile,—a demoniac grin
appears upon his face, as he makes the survey, and tells a sufficient
story.

“Ay, it is there still!” he muttered—“precious proof of my
revenge! Little did Nicolas de Vergaray fancy, when he
triumphed over my heart, that I should so soon find the way to

his! I would not cleanse the bright steel which his blood had
tainted. I preferred that the stains should forever remind me of
my triumph at the last;—ay, in the moment when he fondly
fancied he had all to himself the happiness which he had despoiled
me of! He, at least, enjoyed it only in his dreams!”

The door opened. The soliloquy was arrested. He restored
the dagger to its sheath, and looked up at the intruder. This
was an old woman of about sixty, a mestizo, a cross of the negro
and the red-man. She combined, in very equal degree, the most
conspicuous characteristics of the two. She had the high cheek
bones, the thin lips, the full chin, the glossy dark flowing hair of
the Indian, with the retreating forehead and flat nose of the black.
Her eyes were of the sly, sharp, gipsy cast, the brows quite gray,
and thus in singular contrast with her hair, which was quite as
black as in the days of her childhood;—if, indeed, days of childhood
had ever been known to her! She had not the appearance of
one who had ever been a child. The wear and tear of vexing passions
had scarred her face with every sign of premature old age.
Her skin was a series of wrinkles, like the ripples of spent billows
upon a gradually rising shore. Her teeth were gone, with the
exception of a couple of very sharp snags, that stood out in
front, between her thin lips, like those of a squirrel. She had no
flesh upon her bones, and her clothes, thin and light, according
with climate and season, hung upon her skeleton form as if from
a peg upon the wall! A gauze handkerchief, wrapped imperfectly
above her neck, suffered her skinny bosom to appear, but
without increasing her attractions. Her figure, thus betraying
the signs of age, was yet singularly erect. Her step was firm,
though stealthy. You saw that she set her foot down firmly,
though you did not hear it; and, though moving with caution,
she was yet quick of movement. She did not wait for a summons,
but advanced at once to her master, and stood up before
him; her eyes lighting up beneath the gray brows, like lamps of
naphtha in sepulchral caverns.

“Give me some wine, Anita,” was his first salutation.

She brought it forth from a cupboard, and placed it before
him; a flask encased in wicker-work of straw. The goblet was
brought at the same moment. She said nothing.

“Get another goblet for yourself, Anita, and sit!”

She did as she was commanded, quietly, and without hesitation;
as if to obey was a thing of course, and she had been accustomed
to all manner of commands.

Don Balthazar filled his glass, and swallowed the contents at a
single gulph. He filled it a second time, and seated it before
him.

“Drink,” said he, “Anita.”

She did as she was bade, emptied the goblet as soon as filled,
and her eyes glittered with a humid light, pale and intensely spiritual.
After a pause, in which she seemed wholly to wait on his
words, he spoke:

“Well, has she been troublesome?”

“No!” was the brief reply, in the short, shrill, yet soft manner
of the red-man.

“It is strange! She has been showing me the image of her
mother, as we both have seen it often, in other days; you, in particular,
Anita!”

The eyes of the woman glared with an expression of hatred,
which was absolutely fiendish.

“She shows the blood,” he continued, “as I never saw it
shown before! But how is it that she does not sleep? Has she
ate—has she drank?”

“Yes; but not much! Very little! She suspects. She is
uneasy. I see! She thinks something wrong.”

This was spoken in a patois common to the persons of her
class, but we do not choose to imitate her.

“Something more than thinks, I fancy! She knows. How
has she discovered?”

“I don't know that she has discovered anything. She said to
me once, about a week ago, that she wondered why she felt so
drowsy every day.”

“Ah!—and you? —”

“I wondered too! That was all!”

“There is something more. Are you sure, Anita, that she has
not found you sleeping? Are you sure that you have not happened
upon a flask of canary at the wrong moment?”

“No!”

“Well! I am sure that she has made some discovery! The
question is what?—and how much? She knows the worst—that
is certain.”

The woman grinned.

“But does she know by what means we have worked? You
say she eats and drinks little. Is this only the lack of appetite,
or does she suspect her food?”

The woman avowed her ignorance.

“But she ate and drank yesterday?”

“Yes; but very little.”

“Did she seem affected afterwards?”

“Very little! She was drowsy. She took her siesta; but
when I came in to look at her, she rose up.”

“Can she have become accustomed to it already? Does it
cease to affect her? You must increase the dose, Anita.”

“It may kill her!”

“Hardly! How much do you give her now?”

The woman took a small phial from her bosom and held it up
to the light. It contained a slightly greenish liquor. She designated,
with her finger upon the phial, the quantity given.

“That should be enough, certainly! But if she refuses the
draught—rejects the food! That is the question. The next
question is, whether she refuses from want of appetite, simply?
You must change the food, Anita. Tempt her appetite. Get
some new dishes, and forbear the drug, until her suspicions, if
she have any, are quieted;—say, for the next three days. Meanwhile,
be vigilant, and see that you are not surprised. You note
all who approach her?”

“All!”

“Now is the time for circumspection. She loves this knight
of Portugal.”

“She has just refused him.”

“Yes; the younger brother. But the other—”

“He comes seldom.”

“But is not the less powerful when he comes. They must be
closely watched, when together. He must not be suffered to
propose to her without interruption. If you find him, at any
time, when I am absent, becoming too impressive, show yourself,
and stop the progress. In that man I see my bane! She loves
him. How has she concealed it from you?”

The woman answered by a vacant stare.

“Ah! I see! There are some things quite too subtle for you,
Anita. But, let there be nothing which escapes your watch. If
necessary, you must increase the potion.”

“Unless you mean to kill her,—no! She now takes as much
as can be safely given.”

“Yes, if she takes it all! But, when she refuses to eat and
drink, or does so sparingly, then more may be given. You must
not forget what you owe her mother.”

The eyes of the woman glared fearfully.

“You have not forgotten your own daughter?”

Anita seized the flask, unbidden, and again filled the glass
before her, which she emptied at a draught.

“To-night, I have seen the mother in the daughter! She has
all her passions, though as yet suppressed. She will give us
trouble, unless we take heed to her. Our danger is in the passion
which she feels for this Portuguese knight—the elder, I mean—not
the younger. She cares nothing for him. If I can get them both
away to Florida, or otherwise disposed of, all may go well; and
she may subside into her old lethargy. Her passion for him has
brought out all her other passions. They make her vigilant and
thoughtful. They quicken her intelligence. She is not the same
woman she was a month ago. She is no longer in my power, or
in yours. If we heed not, she will escape us. She will marry
this Portuguese. She will expose us!—”

The woman grinned with exultation.

“She dare not! To expose us is to tell—”

“Very true; but you remember that, when her Biscayan
mother was aroused to passion, she had no prudence! She revealed
every thing! It will be so with Olivia. I am sure of it,
from what I have seen to-night. That is our danger. Let her,
in this paroxysm, be assured that all her hopes of this Portuguese
knight depend on escape from us, and she will rush into
the market-place with all her secrets! She will destroy herself
in the fury which would destroy us. And, Anita, if she can win
belief, she will not so surely destroy herself. We know that she
is guiltless, in her soul, of any crime;—we know that the whole
wrong is ours!”

“Yes; but the shame?”

“Is something in Spain; not so much here! and pity and
sympathy will lessen it anywhere! We must beware of any
extremity. Now is the time for all your subtlety, if we
would be safe. See to it; observe her closely; see that she and
this knight of Portugal—the elder, mark you—from the younger,
indeed, we have no cause of fear—do not meet, unless under
your eye or mine; and that they do not come to any understanding.
We must keep them from mutual confessions. They both
love passionately; but better for us that they were both dead,
than that either should speak of passion to each other's ears!
Let her but hear and answer him, and she is happy, Anita—happy!
think of that, Anita!—think of that! How will you relish
to see the daughter of that mother happy in the arms of her
lover, while you are led off to prison, knowing the fate of your
own daughter—the debt of thirty years unpaid; while your
son —”

“Tell me of him! Have you heard?” was the eager inquiry
of the woman, who, during the speech of the other—which was
evidently designed to goad her passions into phrensy,—had risen
from her seat, and moved hurriedly, with clasped hands, and
in intense agitation, over the floor.

“Tell me of him! Of Mateo;—have you heard, my master?”

She approached him closely as she made the inquiry, and bent
her face forward, almost touching his own. Her words, earnestly

and impressively spoken, were yet in such subdued accents as
barely to be audible to his ears.

“He is yet in the mountain fastnesses, and at the head of a
formidable band. I have sent to him by a special messenger.
I have sent him money.”

“Thanks, my master, thanks! But have you got his pardon
from the adelantado?”

“Not yet! But if we can get these Portuguese knights fairly
pledged for Florida, I shall succeed with Soto, or failing with him,
shall do so with Doña Isabella when he is departed.”

“You will not go with the expedition?”

“Until this night, I had resolved upon it. Now, my resolution
is half taken the other way. There is too much to care for here.
I must see to her!”

“Happy! She!” muttered the woman: “Ha! ha! As if
I am living here for nothing. As if I had no memory to make
bitter all my soul!”

“Drink, Anita.”

The hag willingly obeyed. The instincts of black and red man,
combined within her, made it easy to comply with such an order.
When she had finished, her eyes glittering with a moist white
light, her companion said—

“And now watch! She must eat and drink. If she will not
eat as you provide, put things in her way to tempt her. Leave
closets open to her search, only prepare what ye put there. Increase
the dose.”

“It will kill her, if she eats or drinks. But what then? Let
her die!”

The light reddened fiercely in the vindictive woman's eye.
Don Balthazar regarded her coldly and quietly for a moment,
then, as if indifferently, remarked—

“No! not yet—not that! it might peril everything—it might
subject us to suspicion—”

The woman approached him softly, and, with a significant lifting
of the finger, said, whisperingly—

“No fear of that. I have a potion which shall so silently steal

into the brain, that none shall suspect. It will leave no footprint,
no finger-marks,—no blood, no blackness, no sign behind
it, yet will it seize upon the life as surely and as suddenly, as if
the dagger had been driven right into the close places of the
heart. Say but the word—”

The dark-souled man shuddered, as he heard, and saw the
fierce, eager, intense glare of the speaker's eyes. He said hurriedly—

“No! Anita! no! I will not that. I will that she should
live—live—yes!—the time is not yet come!”

“It is as you say! Yet had I not forborne to give her this
poison, but that thou hadst in thy power a more terrible death!
I had rather thou shouldst slay her—thou, of her own blood:—
and I saw thee do it.”

“I slay her, Anita! Thou art mad! I tell thee, I would not
touch her life, for the world, if—”

“Ay, if,—if she saves thee not the danger and the trouble. But
it was the life of the heart and the hope, and the woman that I
beheld thee bent to slay, and thy poison was so much more fatal
than mine! Ha! ha! ha!”

“Oh! get thee hence, Anita! The wine begins to work in thee.
But help thyself to another goblet, and to sleep now. Thy watch
has been a weary one.”

The woman yawned at the suggestion, filled the goblet, drank,
and was about to retire without a word, when she seemed to recollect,
and again spoke, as usual, in those low, subdued tones,
which, when employed to utter passionate language, are so singularly
impressive.

“Do not forget Mateo! let me see him once more—bring him
to me—and I will drug for thee a thousand lives!”

Balthazar took her hand and wrung it warmly, nodded his head
affirmatively, but said nothing. The woman went away, without
obeisance or farther nod.

“Well, let the worst come!” muttered the Señor, after she
had departed, “and Anita has her own remedies. If it cannot
be otherwise, let her use the potion. She can burn afterwards to

prove me guiltless. But the time is not yet—not yet. May it
never be. I would escape that necessity, if I can!”

He seated himself, folded some strips of the fumous Cuban
weed together, and lighted an extempore cigar, and still he soliloquized.
Balthazar de Alvaro was a cold, unscrupulous villain;
but though his thoughts ran upon crime, it would be an injustice
to him now to suppose them dictated by hatred. It was not from
any sentiment of hostility that he pursued his victim, as his language
fully testified.

“It may kill her; true! What then? It will not hurt her;
nay, it will help. It will save her. The quality of her offence
is not such as will bring down punishment upon her head: and
the wrong she suffers may well atone for that which she has done.
If heaven be no fable, she is more worthy of its pity than its
loathing; and if hell be not a dream of the priesthood, as I deem
it, then my fate must assure her of a full revenge! Let these be
her consolation. At all events, I must seek mine own safety. She
must die, if needful to secure this! yet, we may escape this necessity.
If we can chain her tongue, my fears perish; and if my
fears perish, she may live. Time will show. I must have time.
Let this old hag but prove faithful, and all may yet go well.
These Portuguese knights disappear with the expedition. I must
see to that. I must move Soto to show better favor to this
Philip de Vasconselos than he hath yet done. He must encourage
him; must give him some distinctions—some command—and
win him from the paths of love, by opening better glimpses to
those of ambition.”

But we need not pursue the meditations of the subtle and bold
criminal who sits and muses before us. They conduct us no farther
in pursuit of the clues which are already in our grasp.