University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.

The moment that Olivia reached her own chamber, she threw
herself prostrate before a fine portrait of the Virgin that hung
against the wall of the apartment. She uttered no prayer, no
sob, no sound; shed no tear; gave no outward sign, beyond her
prostration, of the object of her quest, or of the agony that
preyed upon her; asked not, in language, for the peace and security
which she sought, but lay at length, her humility and grief
apparent only in the one action, as if with the conviction that
all her woes were known; her contrition; the shame from which
she suffered; the faint hope which she dared not encourage; the
fond passion, which she felt to be pure as grateful, but which her
conscience bade her not to entertain. She did not once look up
to the benign and blessing features of that Mother of Love and
Mercy, whose eyes, she yet felt, were looking sweetly and tenderly
down, even into the secret recesses of her own full and
bursting heart. And thus she lay, prone, motionless, as if her
life and breathing had ceased in the utter prostration of her hope
and person.

There is something very touching in the spectacle of a person
totally ignorant of religion as a subject of thought and examination,
who yet welcomes it as a faith; who believes with spontaneous
consent; who receives it as a mystery; seeks not to analyze
or solve it; prefers it, indeed, as a mystery, and confides,

without misgiving, to all its promises! Though wealthy, and
of high birth and connections, Olivia de Alvaro was as little
versed in the doctrines of the theologian, as the simplest peasant
of the country. She knew not that there was anything needing
to be understood. She simply felt. Her faith, as perhaps is the
case always with the most pure of heart, was based wholly on the
sympathies, and a natural sense of weakness. It was a thing of
instinct, not of thought, and it reached her through a sensuous
medium. Better, indeed, as it was so. Doubting her strength,
her safety, and the good faith of those around her, she had no
doubt as to whom only and certainly, she could turn for refuge.
We may smile at her securities; we may hold her choice of the
medium of communication with Deity, to be a mistaken one;
but her confidence is unimpaired; and regarding the object sought
only—peace of mind—reliance—confidence;—the end was quite
to the full attained, in her case, as if the visible Saviour of mankind
stood before her. Nor are we permitted to doubt that the
benevolence of God accepts any medium of communication, with
himself, which a pure faith, however mistaken, may honestly
adopt. To suppose otherwise, would be to accuse his justice,
making feebleness and ignorance objects of punishment, equally
with offence and guilt.

Suddenly, while Olivia still lay in this position, the door of
her chamber opened; and a person entered—a girl of sixteen or
eighteen—a mulatto, who had been evidently just aroused from
her slumbers. She came in yawning; her face vacant, her eyes
still heavy with sleep. Her features were of a sort to show that
sleep was not necessary to impair her intelligence. They were
coarse and meaningless. She was one of those mulattoes, in
whom the more sluggish characteristics of the negro race predominated
over all others: and united, in singular degree, the
qualities of cunning, with an excessive stolidity. Olivia rose
at her approach, seated herself upon a little settle, and looked
up into the face of the mulatto with eyes of inquiry, if not of
hope. The suggestion occurred to her for a moment—“Can I
possibly make use of this creature? Is she capable of the

degree of faith and sympathy which I need in my present
strait?” The inquiry was a natural one. Every young damsel
inclines to put trust in her waiting maid, and in this relation
Juana stood to her mistress. But the latter had too long had
experience of the characteristics of the maid-servant. She
was not ignorant of her cunning, but she had good reason to
believe that this was all pledged to the service of her uncle,
through the medium of the old hag Anita, who was the grandmother
of the girl. As for her affections and sympathies, these
Olivia had never yet been able to awaken. She had been indulgent
and considerate; had bestowed her gifts freely, but beyond
the single moment in which they were bestowed, she had no
proof that the benefit was remembered with gratitude. The
blank, indifferent, stolid features which she surveyed were full of
discouragement, and after a brief examination of them, the unhappy
damsel, with a sigh, averted her eyes, abandoned her purpose
of solicitation—if she had entertained any—and submitted
to be disrobed in profound silence. The girl was not disposed to
break this silence. She performed her task drowsily. It was
not a protracted one: and this done, she retired for the night,
leaving her mistress alone, once more, to commune with her
own sorrows.

“There is no hope!” she exclaimed, mournfully, sitting in her
night dress where the maid had left her, her hands folded upon
her lap, and her moist eyes looking vacantly up at the Virgin
with an expression of the most woeful self-abandonment.

“Yet why should I hope! What is there to hope? What
have I to live for? The light is gone, the love! I dare not
love. It is criminal to love. It is now criminal to live! Yet,
Mother of Mercy, I dare not think of death. I cannot die! I
would not. Yet, it is not because I fear! Oh no! Yet, if it be
not fear, can it be hope that makes me unwilling? Oh! weak
and miserable sinner that I am, can I dream to unite the fate of
any brave cavalier with mine? Shall I glide like a serpent into
the bosom of so noble and gentle a knight as Philip de Vasconselos,
and beguile him into love for so base a thing as I—I that live

a lie to God and a loathing to myself! Shall I who know all
that I am—and who hate my own knowledge—shall I delude
such as he into a faith that I am worthy of his embrace and love?
Alas! if love alone could make me worthy, then were it not
unseemly that I should do so. Oh! I could requite his passion
with a fervor and a truth that should leave him nothing to reproach,
and nothing to regret! To grow to him—to cling to
him forever—to pass into his very heart—to drink life and joy
forever from his lips!—what a dream of happiness! Oh! why
do I cherish this dream? Am I base enough to hope, or to toil
for its fulfilment? Can I do so great a wrong to so noble a gentleman?
Down, foolish thought! Be still! What is the wrong?
Do I not love him? Will I not love him truly as never yet was
knight beloved by woman? Knows he aught—will he ever know
aught of what hath happ'd to me? will it lessen his trust or my
fidelity? Who dare speak—who reveal the terrible secret?—not
he—my uncle—my fate! my eternal enemy! whom—Mary,
mother, take the wild thought from me!—whom I sometimes
feel it in my heart to slay, even while he sleeps upon his couch
under the noonday heavens!”

And, speaking thus passionately, she threw herself once more
before the picture of the Virgin, whom she invoked, as with the
hope, by prayer, to silence her tumultuous passions. But the
refreshing mercies of prayer were not hers. Her soul was in
too wild a conflict to be subdued to quiet, unless by a miracle of
grace. There were other reasons for this conflict and this weakness.
The unhappy girl was really feeble, and in want of sustenance.
We have heard it intimated that she probably entertained
suspicions with regard to the food proffered her. Such
was the case. She now felt assured that her food was drugged;
and she knew with what cruel object. She left much of it untasted,
eating only in the necessity of life; and avoiding all those
dishes with which she had reason to believe the lethargic potion
to be mixed. Her caution and forbearance had not always availed
for her safety; for so subtly was her food prepared by the dexterous
agent employed in drugging it, that the drug had been introduced

into fruits even, the integrity of which one would suppose
could not be invaded unless by some external proofs being
apparent. In this way only could she account for the dreamy
and prostrating moods which she had occasionally felt during the
day. Here, then, was a young woman, of high birth, proud connections,
and ample fortune, an unsuspected prisoner in her own
dwelling, denied, virtually, the necessary aliment of life. Truly
the case was a pitiable one!—Olivia de Alvaro, sustained during
all the scenes in which we have beheld her, chiefly by the intensity
of her excitements, was now near to fainting from absolute
want of food.

The cravings of nature were not to be withstood. She rose
from her prostrate position; seizing her lamp, which she shaded
carefully with a handkerchief on all sides but one, she cautiously
opened the door of her chamber and entered upon the passage
which, more or less directly, conducted to almost every apartment
in the house. Adjoining her own was a small room,
not much more than a closet, which had been assigned to the
waiting maid Juana. Into this she looked boldly; intending, if
the girl were yet awake, to speak to her of some object, any
but that which she really had in view. But the girl, as she expected,
from a previous knowledge of her habits, already slept
profoundly. She closed the door cautiously behind her, and,
with feet set down carefully, she stole along the passage leading
to the opposite quarter of the house. The passage, at a certain
point, divided, one arm conducting to the apartment of Don Balthazar,
the other to guest-chambers; opposite to these was a saloon
which was usually employed in the colder seasons of the year.
The stairway, terminating the passage, led below to servants'
apartments, kitchen, and store-rooms, and constituted, in particular,
the province over which Anita presided. Hither were the
footsteps of Olivia directed; but when she reached the place
where the passage divided—her own lamp being shaded—she
caught a glimpse of a light streaming from beneath the door of
her uncle's chamber. Up to this moment the house had been
apparently wrapt in silence; now she fancied she heard voices

from this quarter. Who could be the parties? Who but her
cruel enemy, her uncle—the man who had abused his trust, and
made the very ties of blood the means by which to violate them
all,—who but he and the malignant creature whom she no less
feared?—the unnatural cross of races, to neither of which had nature
vouchsafed any of her most blessed and compensating qualities.
And what should be the subject of their discussion?—
Was she not their victim?—Were they not even then, as at all
times, meditating how best to circumvent her innocence, and
subdue her to the creature whom she could not think of but with
horror and self-loathing? Perhaps she may hear what they meditate,
may learn their secrets, and find a mean to escape their arts.
Olivia did not suffer any doubts of propriety to prevent her
from endeavoring to fathom their secrets. Her proceeding was
fully justified by her situation. She set down her lamp at an
angle of the passage, and covered it with the handkerchief; then
stole forward to the door of the chamber which held the conspirators.
Through a crevice—the joinery of that region, in that
day, gave little heed to finish—she was enabled to see a part of
the outline of her two enemies. They were both seated, and the
wine-cup was before them. They were speaking earnestly, but
in such subdued accents, that she strove vainly to gather more
than a word at intervals. We have been more fortunate; and,
except for her own sake, need not regret that she was disappointed.
But she could see; and it so happened that it was even
while she gazed, that Anita held up to Don Balthazar the little phial
containing her drug, in order to indicate to him the dose which
she usually bestowed upon her victim. Olivia beheld the phial
and the action, and inferred the rest. Oh! how her eyes flashed
and her soul flamed up as she beheld. Bitter was the feeling in
her heart, which nearly drove the unuttered curse of her spirit
out, aloud, through her closely compressed lips. But she grew
firm, surveyed silently, and saw the phial restored to the bosom
of the crone. After a while, as she found it impossible to hear
what was spoken, her former resolve returned to her; and,
though with some reluctance, she receded softly from the door,
resumed her lamp, and proceeded by the little flight which conducted
below, to the apartments in the rear, which were assigned
especially to Anita. These were easily accessible; Anita never
suspecting any visitor, and least of all the one in question, during
her absence. Here, the poor girl, after curiously surveying the
region into which she had not before often penetrated, began her
search after food. She reasonably supposed that any provisions
which she should find in these precincts would be found undrugged.
There was a basket of cakes, such as had never been
brought to her; of these she gathered a small number, taking
care so to select them as not to disturb the general appearance
of the pile. She found some “cold baked meats,” also—some
fragments of a bird-pie, and other matters of the same sort, such
as had not been displayed among the cates usually provided for
her. Anita, it was apparent, was by no means regardless of her
own appetites. She had a taste for nice things, and, like most
persons of inferior race, was in the possession of an enormous
appetite. Olivia fed freely while storing her spoils away in a little
basket which she had appropriated from a collection in the
closet of the crone. With the basket in one hand and her little
half-shaded lamp in the other, she prepared to effect her return to
her own chamber; but hardly had she emerged from the old
woman's apartments, when she heard the shuffling of feet upon
the stair-flight, while a suppressed cough attested the approach
of the very person upon whose domain she had been trespassing.
Here was a dilemma. To say that she had any fears, in the
event of discovey, would be absurd. The domain was hers.
The food which she had seemed to pilfer was, in fact, the proceeds
of her own estates. But the action would have betrayed her secret
suspicions, which it was her policy for the present to conceal,
and would only prompt her enemies to resort to new schemes
which it might not be possible for her to detect and overthrow.
With the bitter feelings of her soul duly increased with the necessity
which she now felt of concealment under these circumstances, Olivia
silently receded along the path she had come. Still the shuffling of the
old woman's feet was heard, the cough increased in frequency
and force. There was but one course for the unhappy girl, and
that was to hide herself in the very chamber of the enemy; if,
indeed, this were possible. Fortunately, her strength rose with
the emergency. Her mind became clearer under the pressure;
indignant feelings gave her resolution, and she stepped back
firmly to the tabooed region, as quickly as she might with safety,
and there looked about her for a place of refuge.

She was not long in resolving upon a spot in which to shroud
herself. The chamber was one of ample dimensions, and it had
two spacious closets. But Olivia was prudently apprehensive
that the old woman might look into these; she cast about for a
place of better promise. Anita had the negro faculty of accumulation
in high degree. To those who know anything of the
habits of this race of people, it will readily be conjectured that
a person in such a situation as that which she enjoyed, and of her
age, had gathered about her an infinite treasure of the cast-off
possessions of the whites. Her room was accordingly as well
crowded with old clothes as the warehouse of a London clothesman.
They hung about the walls; they lay upon the chairs;
they were suspended upon lines crossing the room obliquely; and
a huge wooden horse, occupying a large portion of one corner,
was absolutely massed with them. Behind this convenient bulk
Olivia succeeded in shrouding herself a few seconds before the
light which the withered crone carried began to glimmer in the
chamber. Here, scarce breathing, she crouched, with all the
patience and resolution which she could command, awaiting the
moment when the hag should sleep, in order to attempt her escape.
The interval was sufficiently tedious, and trying to fear
and patience. Anita had many things to do, and she brought
with her the remnant of the flask of wine of which Don Balthazar
and herself had been drinking. She had yet to try its quality
when alone. She did so, and drank with a rare gusto. Then
she munched of a biscuit, and then she adjusted her bed-clothes.
Finally, she opened and looked into certain boxes, and carefully
fastened them again, before she seated herself. In all these performances,
the poor girl behind the clothes-horse was kept in

continual apprehension. Several times the old hag approached
the place of her concealment. Once she absolutely proceeded
to take from it some of its articles of bed-furniture; to dispose
of cloaks and shawls, and rearrange the disordered drapery.
Olivia, all the while, cowering and crouching like a guilty person,
dreading to be discovered and haled into the light. But she escaped;
the crone receded to other parts of the room, having, it
would seem, a variety of domestic cares, separate from those
which concerned the young lady and the Don, her uncle. Meanwhile,
the damsel watched all her proceedings with no small interest.
With careful finger, she made for herself an aperture between
the massed garments upon the horse, through which she
could behold all that took place within the chamber. And it was
with momently increasing interest that she saw what numerous
cares occupied the soul of that old woman, momently hovering
over the very verge of existence. How she had accumulated;
with what method she examined and arranged; with what caution
she put away; with what heed she counted and reviewed her
treasures, as if she was required to provide for a thousand years.
Olivia was confounded at the extent and sort of possessions which
the aged crone could show; the constant spoliations of a long life.
There were chests and boxes, all of which she opened and examined,
lifting to the light, and surveying some of the contents,
with the same gratification, no doubt, which she felt when she had
first pilled them from the noble lord or lady whom she served, her
master or their guests. Olivia beheld little trinkets there lifted
up to sight, which she herself might claim. She recognized
others, which had been the property of friends. These were all
commonly associated with treasures of quite another character.
Among the possessions of Anita there was quite an armory. There
were hauberk, and helm, and lance-head, and dagger, and silver
spur, and brass, and gorget, and coat-of-mail, and escanpil of cotton,
and bright targe of polished steel. But we forbear the catalogue.
Enough that this acquisitiveness of Anita had been for
sixty years without restraint, exercised in a variety of situations,
and of large opportunities, and that she had been as successful in
concealing as she was avid in securing her spoil. Her treasures
thus acquired, included fruits and spices, silks and satins, rare
velvets, tiffany and lawn, jellies and syrops, tinct with rose and
cinnamon, fresh from Sanarcand and Ind. She had money, too,
in considerable store, and into the slit of a box in one of her
chests she dropped a newly-gotten castellano, probably the gift
of Don Balthazar that very night.

Olivia now began to grow weary of her watch, which had yet
proved so instructive. Her anxieties and apprehensions, as well
as weariness, promised, however, soon to be relieved. The
crone began to disrobe herself for the night. This performance,
but for a single circumstance, would have been totally without
interest to the spectator. But, one of the first necessities of
Anita, after stripping off her outer garments, was to take from her
bosom the little phial which Olivia had seen her exhibit to her
uncle. This she placed upon the table, where it fastened the eye
of the damsel, and held it with a singular fascination. In that
phial lay her fate! That was the potent spell which had so
chained her senses, until — but the thought almost maddened
her, and it was with difficulty that she restrained herself from
rushing forth, and giving utterance to her wild passion in the
wildest phrensies of speech and action. With a strenuous exertion
of her will only, did she forbear; and, still keeping her eye
upon the phial, she continued in her place of watch in quiet.

Meanwhile, Anita had assumed her night-dress. This done,
she addressed herself to her prayers. She, too, could pray; but
hers was not the prayer of agony, and a terrible strife. She
simply obeyed a habit, which but too commonly deceives the
miserable wretch into a false security. But her devotions seemed
to her sufficiently satisfactory. They were coupled with a sort of
penance, whether self-imposed or otherwise we need not inquire.
Kneeling before a little image of the dying Christ, she entreated
his mercy; then crawled on her hands and knees, without rising
once, across the room to her couch, which stood opposite, and
only raised herself that she might make her way into the bed.

No doubt her conscience was quite satisfied with the Deity which
made her toils no weightier.

The soul of Olivia was in great agitation. Fettered in a constrained
position, anxiously dreading and expecting discovery, excited
by what she had seen, and moved by a purpose which she
had not yet declared to herself, and which was still working in
her thought, she was yet compelled to remain quiet until
the old woman slept. Now, age does not sleep easily, or very
soundly: and it was a long time still, before Olivia could be
sure of the proof which taught her that Anita could no longer
hear and see. At length, persuaded that she might venture out
with safety, she did so. The light in the apartment guided her
movements. She approached the bed, and surveyed the sleeper
with curiosity. The withered features, though composed in the
calm of sleep, still seemed to wear, in the eyes of the damsel, the
expression of that malignant hatred with which she felt sure
that Anita had always regarded her. She, herself, looked upon
the sleeper with features of indignant loathing. She turned away
quickly and proceeded to the table. The vague suggestion
which had been working in her mind had grown into a resolution.
She seized the phial, whose mysterious powers she believed
herself to have felt, and without hesitation poured a portion
of its contents into the wine-flask. There were still several
draughts of the liquor in it; she knew the old woman's appetite
for the juices of the grape, and pleased herself with the idea that
she would drink, and sleep;—such a sleep as had been so often
imposed upon her own senses, and to such cruel results. In that
sleep of twenty-four hours—for such was the term which Olivia
assigned to the action of the potion—she, herself, would enjoy a
measure of liberty which had been long unknown. She would
then explore the household, and provide herself—so moderate
was her calculation—such a sufficient supply of proper food,
from the stores of the housekeeper, as would keep her, for a
while, at least, free from the necessity of partaking of her dosed
dishes. Having executed her purpose, there was no longer a

motive to remain, at the risk of detection, and seizing upon her
basket and lamp, she disappeared in safety. The clasp of the
door yielded, and was closed without noise; the passage proved
free; the light had disappeared from beneath the door of her
uncle; and Olivia regained her chamber without embarrassment.
Here she proceeded to satisfy her hunger, in some degree, upon
the cates of which she possessed herself. For the remainder
she sought a hiding-place, which she supposed to be unsuspected.
These put away, the poor girl threw herself once more before
the image of the Virgin, in prayer. She could pray. She was
conscious of suffering, but not of guilt; and, as she looked
up, she fancied that the picture smiled upon her. Upon this
smile she slept and dreamed pleasantly; and, in her dream, beheld
the image of Philip de Vasconselos, occupying the place of
the Virgin, and looking down upon her with even more loving
sweetness.