University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

Don Balthazar found no difficulty in sending off the two visitors.
After the departure of Olivia, they had but little motive
to remain. Her uncle was not much a favorite with them. He
was known to be a hard and selfish man, who was believed, and
rightly, to have no sympathies with either. Still, he was a man
of the court, and could put on, when he pleased, the manners of
a preux chevalier. He was now exceedingly courteous and conciliatory,
and apologized warmly for the unavoidable withdrawal
of his niece, and for those cares, of his own, which denied him
the pleasure of giving them further entertainment. He told
them, without scruple, the cause of the present confusion in his
household; and made quite a pretty story of it.

“His venerable housekeeper, who had been almost a mother
to Olivia, watching and tending her youth with more than parental
solicitude, was suddenly found dead in her seat. Well that
morning, to all appearance, at noon she had passed to judgment;
and this without alarming the family. Olivia was, of course,
terribly shocked by the event. She had retired inconsolable to
her chamber. She was so tenderly attached to Anita, and Anita
so tenderly attached to her! Her affection was very great,—
great indeed;—so great, that he, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, was
exceedingly anxious for her health;—and so forth.” “And so,
good morning to you, Señores.”

“An old hag!” exclaimed Nuno de Tobar to his companion
as soon as they had got fairly beyond the premises,—“one of

the ugliest and most fiendish-looking human vultures you ever
beheld. As for her attachment to Olivia, or Olivia's to her, I don't
believe a word of it. I never saw any proofs of it myself, and
have heard many things which lead me to think there could be
no attachment between them. In fact, Leonora tells me that
Anita was no more than a spy upon the poor girl, whose steps
were watched as carefully as if every bush concealed a lover,
and behind every tree stood an armed man ready to snatch her
up and make off with her. Be sure, Don Balthazar has no desire
that she should pass from any keeping but his own. He
enjoys too much good picking from the estates of Olivia to give
her up without a struggle. There is a strange story about a
silver mine which he has somehow wholly appropriated to himself;
and by all accounts, he may well dread the day of reckoning
with the man who shall become her husband. For this reason
he keeps her immured as much as possible; and it is certain
that no gentleman can obtain access to his dwelling without finding
himself watched. You must continue, Philip, your visits
when the uncle is known to be busy elsewhere. There is something
gained, I am thinking, by the death of this old woman.
It is a special providence in your behalf. See that you make
use of it.”

The calculations of Nuno de Tobar, in respect to the advantages
gained in favor of the larger liberty of Olivia by the death
of Anita, were somewhat those of Olivia herself; for, in spite
of the shock which she had received by that event, and the natural
horrors which were taught her by her own secret consciousness
of the cause of it, she could not avoid reflecting upon the
probable increase of her own securities in consequence. They
were both deceived. That very night, the place of Anita was
filled by another old woman, another creature of Don Balthazar,
not so ugly, perhaps, or so old as her predecessor, but equally
hard favored and unscrupulous. Sylvia was a mestizo also,
brought from one of the haciendas of the estate, a few miles in
the country. Olivia had seen and known her before. The sight
of this woman, in her new situation, left her little hope of profit

by the death of Anita. Sylvia was as subtle as the former, and
no less the willing tool of her employer. She had all the fierce
malignity of mood characteristic of the hybrid race to which
she belonged,—a people usually of fierce passions, sudden impulses,
capricious impulse, and tenacious of the sense of wrong
and injury to the latest moment of existence. Don Balthazar
knew his creatures well, and satisfied of this fact, Olivia, for the
moment, resigned herself to despair again.

But she found an unexpected ally, where she least looked for
one, in the person of the young serving girl, Juana. This girl
was the grand-daughter of Anita. The event which put another
in the place of her grandmother, had also its injurious consequences
to herself. She naturally regarded herself as the
heiress of her kinswoman; and knowing how large and various
had been the accumulations of the latter, her expectations were
correspondingly large. To her consternation, the successor to
the place of Anita at once usurped possession of all her stores.
Juana was driven out from the precincts altogether, and compelled
to confine herself to the little chamber which she had long
occupied, adjoining that of Olivia. Sylvia had assumed the entire
control of the household, and her usurpations, in a few hours,
were such as to satisfy Juana that her expectations from the
savings of her grandmother were all cut off. She was held in
no more favor than her mistress, and soon found herself under
an authority which was disposed to submit to no questioning.
Sylvia had her own children and grand-children to provide for.
Juana was dreadfully indignant. She did not dare to approach
Don Balthazar with her griefs; but she condescended to confide
to Olivia. In her passion she revealed to her all the secrets of
their mutual prison-house, all at least that she knew, and thus,
in a measure, confirmed the unhappy girl in the conviction which
she had already been compelled to feel, that she was the victim
of a thousand cruel arts. Juana swore to have her revenges,
and better to secure sympathy, she promised Olivia that she
should have redress also. What were her plans of vengeance
she did not declare; but when questioned in respect to her

means and opportunities, contented herself with a knowing look,
and a sagacious shaking of the head. She was naturally a stupid
wench, but possessed that sort of animal cunning which is so
frequently found in connection with a base and feeble intellect.
For the present nothing could be extracted from her, and the
business of the household went on without disorder, and with
no apparent interruption. But, as we shall see in the sequel,
Juana was busy after a fashion of her own.

But the day, thus distinguished by the startling events which
we have recorded, was not at an end. Olivia sat alone in the
verandah. The evening meal had been set before her by Juana,
but had been carried out untasted. She had no appetite just
then for mortal food. Her soul was still agitated to its depths,
as the sea that heaves up tumultuously with all its waves, though
the winds which have swept it with fearful strife, have wholly
passed and gone. She lay reclined upon the settee of wicker-work
where we beheld her during her morning interview with
Vasconselos. There was no light in the apartment; none, in
fact, was necessary, while the moon glinting through groves of
orange and anana, sufficed for the desires of the sad and contemplative
spirit. The gay gleams flitted over the floor of the verandah,
and glided, stealthily and faintly, to the interior of the
apartment, otherwise dimly shaded by the massive foliage which
curtained the opening in front. Here, saddening under the
sad sweetness of the scene, Olivia brooded,—absorbed in ruminating
the events and the prospects of a life, which, at its very
budding, seemed already shrouded with a blight. Her heart
sunk within her as she thought; all was dark in the future; all
gloomy, grievous, and reproachful in the past. At length she
wept, and found a momentary relief in her tears. The big drops
forced their way through her fingers,—tears of a bitterness
which proved superior to all the sweets promised by an affection
which was only too precious to her hopes.

“He loves me!” was her exclamation. “He loves me—he—
the only man for whom this heart has ever felt a passion. I
cannot mistake his silent admiration. I cannot doubt the broken

meaning,—the imperfect sentiment—in these hesitating words;
and oh! were it but that I could bear his glances with this
dreadful and humiliating secret in my heart, how heavenly were
such a love. But how to enjoy his affections, yet betray his
confidence! How, unworthy as I am, to receive his embraces!
—How place my head—how bury my face in the bosom whose
faith I have deceived! Impossible! no, Philip de Vasconselos,
—precious as I hold thee to my heart, I must deny myself even
more than I deny thee. Thou wilt come, but it must be for
denial only. I deny thee for thy better fortune. Thou wilt go
hence; go upon the path of conquest; and ambition will rightly
take the place of love! Though I die to own thee, yet I never
will be thine.”

She had spoken audibly this soliloquy. It made its way to
other ears, though her own were scarcely conscious of its import.
From the dense masses of shade at the foot of the verandah,
came a voice in answer:

“A wise resolution, Olivia,—a very wise resolution! But one
thou wilt hardly be prepared to keep. The morning sun will
bring thee fresh hopes and fancies; the evening will bring thee
thy lover with the moonlight; and thou wilt forget the vow as
if it were written in water!”

At the first sound of the speaker's voice, Olivia half started
from the settee on which she reclined. But, as she recognized
the accents of Don Balthazar, she schooled her mood to indifference;
drawing a long deep breath, and looking a mixed scorn and
hatred, which, could her features have been seen at the moment,
would have embodied a truthful portrait of those of Medea,
about to take her flight for Athens, in her chariot dyed with the
gore of her kindred. Intense and bitter was the momentary
feeling of indignation which darkened her cheeks with red, only
to subside, in the next instant, into a more than mortal paleness.
The uncle advanced from the thicket and ascended to the verandah.
He approached her, flung his cap upon a table, and seated
himself at her side. She recoiled from him, retreating to the
opposite end of the settee.

“So hostile still!” said he. “Well! It is perhaps reasonable
enough, though it comports little with thy resolution. If thou
wilt shake off the knights of Portugal, there is no need to send
me with them. Nay, for the very reason that they depart,
should I be suffered to remain. Let me say, Olivia, that I rejoice
in thy resolution. It is wise—it is prudent. It would never
do for thee to wed with Philip de Vasconselos.”

“And wherefore not?”

“Ah! there are sufficient reasons.”

“None which concern thee, at least. If I have so resolved, it
is for a reason of mine own, the force of which it is little likely
that thou shouldst feel.”

“Be it so! It is enough that thou hast resolved. I care not
to know the motive for a decision which is yet grateful to my
mind. Thou hast resolved! and yet I somewhat wonder at thee,
Olivia.”

“Thou know'st me not.”

“Thou wilt scarce keep to thy resolution.”

“Thou know'st me not.”

“Ha! did I not see thee when he was urging thee, as still the
passionate lover knows how to urge his suit? Did I not see thee
tremble, even though thou recoiledst from his supplications? Did
I not see the yielding weakness in thy lip and eye—hear it in the
tremors of thy voice—know it in what I know of the passion for
him which stirs in all thy soul? Thou wouldst have yielded,
at one moment—nay, at another!—I am curious, Olivia. Wherefore,
at certain moments, when his hand had taken thine into close
keeping, and when thy whole heart was melting to his persuasive
words—wherefore, then, didst thou break away, and speak of
thy guitar, and of idle minstrelsy?”

“Said I not,—thou know'st me not?”

“But wherefore?”

“Thou didst not give heed to the words he uttered.”

“Nay, but I did. They were words of passion and devotion,
such as well befit such an occasion. They were well chosen
words of love, I trow; and they were passing sweet, I am certain,

in thy ears. Why just then didst thou recoil from him, even
as from an adder thou hadst startled in thy path,—evade his supplications,—changing
the course of his thought, and of thy own,
and seeking to divert him from his purpose, only that he might
hear how deftly thou couldst finger thy guitar?”

“And think'st thou I had such motive?”

“What else?”

“I tell thee again, thou know'st me not! Heard'st thou the
words which he poured into mine ears?”

“What words? I noted that he was warming to thee with no
doubtful purpose. Didst thou mistake him?”

“No! I knew—I felt his purpose; and had his words been
otherwise chosen, I had probably been base enough to listen, and
weak enough to yield! Ah! uncle! hadst thou not utterly
hardened thy soul against all that is noble, the words which Don
Philip employed had smitten upon thy senses equally with mine,
and thou hadst felt a shudder and a cold shame pass over thee,
such as made me, perforce, refuse to listen to the devotion of
that love which I could not help but feel.”

“What words are these? They spoke for his love only!”

“More! more! There were words in his speech which were
as poisoned arrows to my heart.”

“How! what?”

“For my— but no! no! why should I repeat to thee? Thou
wilt not feel as I do—thou canst not! Enough, that I strove to
avoid the professions which I dared not trust myself to answer.
I would have him abandon his purpose, and seek me no more.
Let him find one who, though she may love him less profoundly,
will be more deserving of his affections. It is because I so much
love him, that I will deny his prayer. I dare not dishonor a heart
which is so precious to my own.”

The uncle rose from his seat, and stood intently gazing for a
moment, in silence, upon the excited features of the damsel. She
had exhibited to his mind a virtue beyond his understanding. He
approached and laid his hand upon her shoulder. She recoiled
from his touch.

“Verily, Olivia, thou art but a very simple child.”

“Child! Oh! would to Heaven I were! but I am not. Thou
hast forced upon me too dreary an experience of age—of thy
age—to be a child—of thy sex, to be properly sensible of mine.
Thou hast crushed me with a deadly weight of knowledge! Thy
tutorship has taken from me all the sweet ignorance of childhood.
Alas! I know too much for childhood as well as peace! neither
shall I ever know again!”

“Thy fit is again coming on thee, Olivia!”

“Fit! I tell thee, Don Balthazar de Alvaro, that, though thou
hast the power to destroy me, and every hope which is mine, I
will not suffer thee to mock me with thy taunts! Fit! Verily,
if it were foaming madness, it were in reason, in proper accordance
with my wrongs and sorrows. Should I not be maddened!
Should I not rave from the house-top of such wrongs as might
move the heavens and the earth to shudder?”

“And wherefore rave? Thou seest how idle! I can well conceive
how much thou feel'st the loss of such a knight as Philip
de Vasconselos—for, of a truth, a more noble cavalier treads not
the Isle of Cuba—”

“No more! no more!”

It seemed the humor of Don Balthazar to chafe the sore spot
in her soul, and he continued:

“Well, what say'st thou to Augustin de Sinolar?”

“Why didst thou bring him hither to-day? He made suit to
thee before. Said I not then, that I scorn this man De Sinolar?”

“So!—thou rejectest De Sinolar because thou scorn'st him, and
Vasconselos because thou lovest him? This, my Olivia, is but
child's play. Let me show thee thy folly. Thou hast a secret.
It is my secret as well as thine, but I have every confidence that
thou wilt keep it faithfully. Now, to have a secret, such as she
never likes to reveal, is just the failing of every woman since the
days of Eve. Just such a secret as thine, troubles every damsel
fair as thou art!”

“Impossible!”

“True, my child! True! But should it make her miserable?

She has eaten certain fruits which are forbidden, but she has sense
enough to wipe her mouth after eating, and who is the wiser?
Now, this act of wiping the mouth is very simple. Shalt thou
then deny thyself the privilege of eating again when it pleases
thee? Shalt thou deny thyself, because of a past error—if it
pleases thee so to call it—to partake of even more precious fruits,
which thou dost really desire? Wherefore? What wisdom in
it? No! no! I love thee, Olivia, and will teach thee better
policy. I have resolved for thee, and if thou ever wed'st, thou
shalt wed with De Sinolar.”

“Name not that thing, De Sinolar, to me.”

“True, he is a thing, that is certain;—and so far acceptable. I
rather prefer him on that account.”

“That thou may'st the better use him! For that thou may'st
make a dog of him without endowing him with a dog's courage.”

“Perhaps! perhaps!”

“But I shall never wed. So forbear this cruel talk, I pray thee.”

“I cannot trust thy resolution, Olivia. I fear that when Philip
de Vasconselos next approaches thee with the words of soliciting,
thou wilt answer him with the words of consent.”

“No! no! no!”

“Yet, verily, thou lovest that man!”

“I deny it not! It is my boast, when spoken to thy ears. It
were my pride, were I other than I am, to make declaration of my
love abroad to all mankind. I love him as man never was loved
before; and it is, as I have said to thee already, it is even because I
so much love, that I will not marry him. I will not do him such
grievous wrong! Oh! uncle, thou hast destroyed my hope and
happiness forever. Thou hast abused the trust of my dear father—thou
the shepherd, that hast thyself been the wolf to destroy
the lamb.”

A paroxysm of tears followed this speech. The uncle smiled
contemptuously. He knew that the more violent passion was
usually weakened in the access of tears. She looked suddenly up
and caught the expression; and a passionate pride rose up in her
soul to her relief.

“Thou mock'st, I see! Now, I say to thee, Don Balthazar de
Alvaro! thou hadst better stay thy tortures. Thou know'st me
not, or the fires which prey upon my soul like those of a volcano.
Better thou shouldst, without weapon or preparation, arouse the
she-wolf in the cavern with her young, than vex me farther with
thy taunts. Beware! I have been weak, and thou hast taken me
at 'vantage. But if I am weak, I am blind no longer; and if not
strong to bear, I am, at least, tempered to resist and to resent.
The very passions thou hast goaded into existence will be my
avengers in the end. I counsel thee give heed to what I say. Beware!
I am capable of things even more evil than thou think'st
for, and there is a limit beyond which it were well for thee not to
go. Once more I warn thee. I have had such bitter thoughts
and feelings towards thee, that didst thou press me much further,
I feel as if I could slay thee with a dagger, even as I would strike
the serpent that crept to my bosom while I slept.”

She had risen while she spoke, and stood before him, wild and
passionate, with flashing dark eye, and white arm waving. He
surveyed her with a stern and frowning brow, but somewhat
coldly—his lips compressed, as if with a feeling of pride and
power,—and his eye looking into hers with the bright fixedness
which that of the serpent is said to show when fascinating the
bird from the tree. There was a pause; the parties still regarding
each other. She, standing, looking on him with a raised spirit, and
wild, fiery glance; he, sitting, returning the gaze steadfastly—
coolly if not calmly, and apparently reserving himself for the
proper moment. At length, he spoke, very deliberately, as if
measuring every syllable.

“I think I do know thee, Olivia de Alvaro, and something
know of what thou art capable in thy passion. Have I not, of
late, likened thee to thy Biscayan mother? and her I knew thoroughly.
Let me convince thee that I do not estimate too humbly
thy powers of evil. Sit down once more while I question
thee.”

There was something so calm and quiet in the authority of his
voice and words, that, from habit merely, the damsel submitted

and resumed her seat. Steadily looking into her face, he proceeded
to speak again, as deliberately as before.

“Didst thou know, Olivia, that the poor old woman, Anita,
was poisoned? She died from no old age, but from a deadly
liquor which she was made to drink.”

The listener grew white as death. Her knees shook beneath
her. Her tongue was frozen.

“Ay, Olivia, some loving hand drenched her posset with a too
bountiful allowance! Dost thou know this kerchief, Olivia?”

He showed it. It was her own. She was silent.

“This kerchief did I find where the person was concealed who
drugged the old woman's draught.”

He paused, as if awaiting the answer. But none was spoken.

“Thou hast nothing to say. Well! It is enough. Not to
speak is sufficiently to answer at such a moment. But, let me
say to thee farther, my child, it is known to me that thou thyself
wast the last in the chamber of Anita last night! Shouldst thou
think, now, that I am ignorant of what thou art capable? It was
thy hand, Olivia de Alvaro, that drugged the old woman's
draught with death.”

“And if it were, Don Balthazar de Alvaro,” exclaimed Olivia,
rising, and resuming all her strength and courage, as she beheld
the air and listened to the tone of superiority which he employed—“and
if it were my hand, then were my hand rightly employed
in punishing one who has been a murderess to me. And
had my hand served thee with the same fatal drug, then were I
also justified in the sight of man and heaven. Go to, Señor, thou
shalt not alarm or confound me. I am prepared, when thou art
so pleased, to listen to thee as thou reportest all thy story to the
world. I fear thee not—I know not now that I fear anything in
life. Thou hast brought me to this desperation. Yet know, that
when I mixed the drug with the draught of Anita, I knew it not
as a deadly poison. I knew it only, and believed it to be no
more than a stupefying drug, such as wrap the senses in an unnatural
and temporary slumber. As thou knowest so much, it
is not unlikely that thou knowest, also, that I beheld thee and

Anita in secret conference in regard to my fate, on the night
when that drug was mixed with her wine? I saw her, ay, and
thee, as the fatal phial was held between ye to the light, and ye
resolved together that my potion was to be increased. Was it
unreasonable if I thought the goodly medicine which ye designed
for me, in your charity, it was but fitting that ye also should
partake? I wished to commend ye also to such blessed visions
and dreams, as ye nightly and daily prepared for me. I would
have ye too enjoy that insensible respose, which ye decreed between
ye should lighten my cares, and keep me from the feeling
of my cruel wrongs; and had it been possible, Don Balthazar,
that I could have mingled the drug with thy own wine-cup, this
hand should fearlessly have done it;—not, I affirm, as meaning
that it should be fatal to thy life, but as forcing you to such trial
of those sufferings of mine which have never yet compelled your
pity and forbearance! Now, that you know of what I am capable,
I again bid ye beware! You know the terms between us.
I loathe you, and I fear you; yet so little do I fear the world of
man, that, were it not for one who lives among ye, I should commission
you freely to declare aloud all that you have made me
and all that I am! Nay, the time may come, when, heedless of
the shame which shall follow from this speech, I myself shall go
out into the highways of the city, and speak aloud the truth myself!”

Don Balthazar was silenced. For the moment, he had no
refuge. He rose and left the verandah, and passed into the groves
around it; while Olivia, thoroughly exhausted, but no longer
tremulous or fearful, rose with a firm frame and spirit, and
moved quietly to her chamber.