University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Ib.

The household of Don Balthazar de Alvaro maintained its accustomed
serenity to the world without. Its order had undergone
no apparent disturbance since the death of old Anita, and
Sylvia, her mestizo successor, seemed to fall as naturally into
her habits, as if she had been trained directly under them. No
doubt the stern discipline of her master had tutored her to implicit
obedience, while his precaution had left nothing doubtful
in the directions which he gave her for her government during
his absence. But we may mention here, that the girl Juana, if
not refractory, was inattentive, and the old hag who now superintended
the household had occasion to notice her frequent and
prolonged absences, for which the girl, on her return, was unwilling,
or unable to account. Once or twice during the progress of
the last twenty-four hours, had Sylvia felt it incumbent on her
to administer an expressive cuff or two to the cheeks of the sullen
servant, winding up these salutary admonitions with threats
of more potent handling, and a final appeal to Don Balthazar.
But blows and threats did not much mend the matter. They
only increased the dogged obstinacy and sullenness of the girl;
who, however, did not spare her young mistress the recital of
her cruel wrongs. She concluded always, however, with a significant
and monitory shaking of the head, winding up with the
repeated assurance of redress, both for herself and mistress.

Olivia did not much heed these assurances, and listened, simply,
in that mood of listlessness, which had followed her despairing
determination not to wed with Philip de Vasconselos. She

abandoned herself to this feeling, and its external exhibition was
apathy. Still, she somewhat wondered that she did not see her
lover—that he did not make his appearance, as her uncle feared,
as her friend Leonora de Tobar had asserted he would appear,
and as she felt it criminal to hope. A morning visit from Leonora,
the thoughtless, the joyous, upon whom neither shame nor
sorrow seemed to sit long, gave her all the little tattle of the
town; and she ran on, with tongue at random, discoursing of a
thousand matters in which Olivia took no interest. It was only
when Philip de Vasconselos became the subject, that the visitor
found an expression of eagerness and concern in the eyes of her
suffering hostess.

“It is certain that he loves you to distraction, Olivia. Nuno
says so, and he ought to know; and I suppose he could tell me
a great many things to prove it; but he won't. He says Philip
is his friend, and he can't betray his friend's secrets. As if a
husband should have any secrets from his wife; and as if I
couldn't keep a secret. Now you know, Olivia, nobody better
keeps a secret than I. I never tell any thing—never! My
mouth is sealed upon a secret, as solemnly and sacredly, Livy,
as if it were a—a what?—why a kiss, to be sure. He might trust
me, I'm sure, with every thing he knows—with every thing he's
seen and done, and not a syllable should ever pass my lips.
And yet, would you believe it, when I ask him about your Philip
and his secrets, only to tell you every thing, why he tells me
that Philip says he will tell me, and that I will tell you, and then
every body will know every thing. The fact is, Livy, one thing
is very certain to me, that if your Philip speaks in that way—
though I don't believe a word of it—he's a very saucy person,
and Nuno should not listen to him. But Nuno believes him the
best fellow in the world, and says he loves him next to me.
Not close, you know, but far off—that is, he has no friendship
for any body betwixt him and me. Now I'll let you into a great
secret that Nuno told me, and O! he was so positive that you
shouldn't hear, of all the world, and I promised him not to tell
you, Livy, but I didn't mean it, and I know better than all that;

for what is a friend meant for, if one is to tell them no secrets
at all, and hear no secrets from them? Pretty friendship that,
indeed! No! no! I know better, and I'll be faithful to you,
Livy, and tell you every thing.”

The necessity of stopping to take breath alone arrested the
torrent. Meanwhile, Olivia had not the heart to reject the alleged
secret. That which was stirring in her own bosom, and making
her wretched, seemed to catch at every suggestion from without,
as if it brought with it a hope; and, indeed, we are half inclined
to think that very young girls, of the age of these two, have
not often been persuaded to reject a revelation in which those
great feminine interests, of love and marriage, are the understood
elements. Olivia, however, sat incurious—seemingly so, at least
—at all events, she was passive.

“Well! don't you ask what the secret is, Livy? you don't
meant to pretend that you don't care; for, don't I know you're
dying for this same Philip de Vasconselos, and that you think
more of the plumes in his helmet than of the heads of all other
men?”

Olivia shook her head.

“Oh! if you don't wish to know, Mary Mother, I don't wish
to force it upon you. I can get any number of girls to listen to
my secrets.”

And she pouted and affected a moment's reserve. But she
might as well have sought to stifle a volcano with a soup-plate,
as to endeavor to keep down her tidings when they had once
ascended to her tongue.

“Ah! I see you are sorry, now! Well, you shall hear it.
You must know, then, that Philip has determined not to go with
the Adelantado, and he told Nuno that it was because he loved
you so much. And Nuno says it has caused a great hubbub,
and the Adelantado is in quite a fix, and your uncle, the old Turk,
has been sent to your Philip to persuade him; and Nuno thinks
that Don Balthazar has made him a promise that if he goes with
the expedition, and makes but one campaign, that he shall then
have your hand. So that all is to end happily at last, Livy. My

Nuno and your Philip will come home together, and when you are
married, we'll buy a hacienda alongside of yours at Matelos, and
we'll be as happy as birds of Paradise with our husbands. Isn't
it nice, Livy, and won't we be so happy—so very, very happy?”

“Never! never!” exclaimed the poor girl solemnly, her head
drooping upon her hands, through the fingers of which the big
tears were seen to trickle.

“Oh! but we will, I tell you. None of your nevers for me.
It must be so! Why, Livy, what do you cry for? Because
you will have the very person that you love.”

“No! no! I shall never marry, Leonora.”

“Oh! I know better than that! Why, what in the world
were you born for, Livy? What but to marry a noble gentleman,
and—and—oh, you know what I mean; so don't look so
like a simpleton.”

“I have resolved not to marry, Leonora. I hope”—here her
voice trembled—“I hope that Don Philip will never compel me
to refuse his offer.”

“Of course, he won't compel you to refuse. No, indeed; if I
were he I'd rather compel you the other way, for say what you
will, you love him, and you'll have him, if he ever asks you;
and he loves you, and he will ask you; and I shall be at the
wedding, and we will live alongside of each other, in our two
heavenly haciendas at Matelos, and there shall be no more wars,
and no more campaigns in Florida, and—and—”

There was another breathing spell necessary for farther progress.
This found, the gay, thoughtless creature resumed.

“But I haven't told you half of my secrets. Nuno says that
Philip and his brother Andres have quarrelled, and it is all on
your account. He told Philip that you had refused him —”

“He should not have done that.”

“No! and by the way, Livy, that's what I have to quarrel
with you about. You never told me, your own sister in love, a
word about that business. Oh! you sly, selfish thing. To keep
such a good secret to yourself, and never so much as give me a
peep at it. I wouldn't have served you so.”

“You would have told it to Don Nuno?”

“No, indeed! I can keep a secret as close, you know, as anybody.
As for him, I never tell him anything. But, let me tell
you about the quarrel. There were high words between them.
Don Andres told Nuno himself. Philip never said a word;—
and Don Andres went off from him and took away all the Portuguese
soldiers, who were all followers of Don Andres. He
has the money, you know, though he is the younger brother.
Yet I doubt if he has any great deal of that! But Philip has still
less, having spent all his patrimony in Florida before, when he
went there with Cabeza de Vaça. Philip hasn't even a page to
buckle on his armor, and he has given Nuno his money—all that
he has, I suspect,—to buy him a negro boy to serve as a page
to bring his horse and buckle on his armor. Think of that—a
Moor to be the page of a noble knight. Oh! it is so pitiful!
I am very, very sorry for poor Philip.”

Olivia looked sorry too, but she never lifted her head and
never spoke; a deep sigh forced its way from her bosom, and she
thought—Oh! what dreadful thoughts were hers. How she
would have rejoiced to take the poor knight to her bosom, and
with her wealth to lift him into pride above the pity of the
wretched multitude. Her thoughts took speech in tears; and
every tear was wrung from a bleeding heart. Little did her
thoughtless companion dream of the anguish which she caused by
her wanton, though unmeaning babble. Unmeaning though it was
from her lips, it was full of meaning in the soul of the hearer.
It sunk deep, and settled firmly there, to be reproduced by a
perpetual and unsleeping memory.

“But, dear me, Livy, how can you be so sad after all I have
been telling you? Don't you see how every thing promises to
come out well? Your uncle relents; Don Philip loves you; you
love him; there will be nothing to prevent your marrying him
now, and your happiness is sure. Do you weep for that? What
a strange, foolish child, to weep because she is to be happy!”

“I shall never be happy, Leonora. I shall never marry Don
Philip, or any man. I shall go to a convent.”

“A convent! What! with your face and fortune? Now I
know you are crazy. But you don't mean what you say. Leave
convents to the ugly and the poor, to those who have no hopes
and no pleasures —”

“I have no pleasures—no hopes!”

“And why not? It's because you won't have them, then. If
I were you, I should have nothing else. I should live in hope all
the day, and dream of pleasures all the night. The world should
bring me nothing but love and sunshine, and every thought of
my soul should be born in the odor of a thousand flowers. And
why should your happiness not be like mine—you who have the
means to make it so? Now don't think to cheat me with those
vacant looks. This sadness is only a sort of cloud, behind which
is the brightest moon of joy. The cloud will disappear with the
first breeze, and the moon will shine out, bright and full of happiness.
Wait a few days. To-morrow begins the sports
and the tourneys. Oh! Livy, such great preparations as they
have made. Nuno has had the arrangement of everything. He
took me with him yesterday, to see the lists and barriers. They
have raised them just without the city, in a natural amphitheatre
among the hills. There is a great enclosure for the bull-fights.
We are to have the most splendid bull-fights, as brave as any
thing they have in Spain. They brought in a dozen great beasts
yesterday from the mountains—the finest animals in the world;
all as wild as tigers. Several famous matadors have come with
them, and we are to have such sport. They have raised high
scaffolds for the noble people and the ladies, and in the centre is
one with a canopy for the Adelantado and the Lady Isabella, and
their immediate friends; we are to sit with them, Livy, but on
lower seats, and nearer to the lists, so that the gallant Cavaliers
can draw nigh to us, after each passage of arms, and each select
his Queen of Love and Beauty. Won't that be charming? Think
of that, Livy. I'm sure I know who will be among the most gallant
knights, and I'm sure I know who he'll choose as his Queen
of Beauty. Ah! but, Livy, you mustn't put on that sad and
solemn face! it will never do in such a scene as that!”

“I will not be there, Leonora.”

“You can't help yourself. Your uncle will be compelled to
bring you. I heard the Lady Isabella herself say to him that she
will require you to be of her party, and he promised her that he
would bring you. No! no! on such an occasion nobody will
be allowed to stay away. In particular, what will be said if the
greatest beauty and fortune in the Island were not to appear?
Every body would say then, it was because Don Balthazar did
not wish you to be seen—did not wish you to be loved—was not
willing to give up the guardianship of your treasures. No! he
cannot help but bring you. He knows what an outcry would
follow your absence; and the blame would rest upon him. The
Adelantado will see to that.”

Olivia did not answer, but she felt the force of what her gay
companion had spoken. She had already had it signified to her
by her uncle, as a matter of course, that her presence had been
required; and she felt, perhaps, that there was no mode of escape
from the necessity. Possibly a lurking and natural curiosity
might help to reconcile her to the duty. Nay, was it a natural
reluctance, that which would forbear the sight of the noble performances
of the man she loved? Let her resolve as she might,
not to marry him, there was no need of a resolution to refuse to
see him in a public spectacle where he was seen by thousands
more. While they yet spoke of this matter, a servant appeared
with a billet from Don Balthazar, and a case containing rich silks
and ribbons. These amused the curious eyes of Leonora for half
an hour. The note simply confirmed what had been said by the
gay lady, touching the desires of Donna Isabella. In a short
space after, a billet from that lady herself, conveying an expression
of the same desire, was also brought her, accompanied by a
brilliant necklace and cross, which she was entreated to accept,
and wear at the tournament. Olivia received them, but without
any show of interest. Not so Leonora, who gloated over them
with a savage sort of admiration.

“You are the coldest creature in the world, Livy. Positively
you have no heart. I could weep over such beautiful presents.”

“And I too can better weep than rejoice over them, Leonora.”

“What can be the matter with the child? Livy, there is something
wrong—it is unnatural that you should show such faces at such
a time—you, so young, so beautiful, with such a fortune, and with
such a lover—with every reason, too, for believing that nothing
can now stand in the way of your loves. Livy, I do think that
there is something wrong—something which I cannot guess.”

For a moment the gay young woman forgot all her levity, and
turning from the rich dresses and the jewels, fixed her eyes on the
gloomy features of Olivia, with such intense and penetrating curiosity,
that her cheeks flushed and her eyes fell; and she stammered
rather than spoke—afraid of that suspicious gaze:—

“No! nothing; only I am sick—sick at heart, Leonora. I am
very foolish and weak! Would to Heaven I were dead!”

“Shocking! was ever such a foolish child! But something is
the matter, and it must be very serious to make you look and
speak so;—and I must know it, Livy. As your friend, you must
tell me all. You know how well I can keep a secret. Come,
dear, tell me what it is that troubles you.”

This recalled Olivia to herself. The very appeal to her experience
in behalf of her friend's capacity to keep a secret, warned
her of the danger threatening her. She did not philosophize except
through her instincts; these sufficiently taught her that a
secret, once supposed to exist, is already half discovered; and by
a strong mental effort, she threw off her cloud for a space, and
allowed herself to answer prattle with prattle. She diverted her
friend's curiosity from herself to her garments, and in the examination
of silks, ribbons and jewels, Leonora forgot that there were
any other mysteries in the world. Thus the rest of the time was
consumed while she remained.

When her gay visitor was gone, Olivia sank into a seeming
stupor; yet her thought was busy all the while; the mournful,
dreary, ghostly speculation, which aimed at nothing, settled upon
nothing, hoped for nothing, and feared everything. The day passed
thus. She was unconscious mostly when Juana made her appearance
in the apartment, and only roused herself to reply to the salutations

of Sylvia. Food was set before her, but she could not eat. Her
appetite failed her wholly thus, for long periods, to be roused at
periods into a sudden voracity. And she was alone—all alone!
She felt her loneliness, with her other and severer griefs, and the image
of Philip de Vasconselos only grew before her imagination
to compel her tears. How tenderly did she think of him, yet
how gloomily! He was at once her hope and her terror. She
could have died for him with a bound and cry of joy; but she
dared not resolve to live for him. On the edge of this al Sirat
of hope and delight she loitered long, but the nobler sentiment
rose superior to her love—nay, let us do her justice, rose out of
her love, and had its birth only in her truth and fondness. The day
passed and found her still resolute to deny him. “No!” was still
the utterance of her heart and will—“No! I too much love him,
and the nobleness which he loves, to dishonor him with hand of
mine! Oh! uncle, to what misery hast thou doomed the orphan
entrusted to thy keeping!”

While she broods, prostrate before the image of the Blessed
Mother, scarce knowing where she lies—scarce praying as
she purposes—her prayers, perhaps, more efficient from the
very incapacity of her wandering mind, to fix, connect and breathe
them, to the benign Being to whose maternal spirit she yet looks
for saving,—let us turn to the movements of that cruel kinsman
whom her condition loads with curses which her lips do not
speak.

It was only after a long day of toil, public and private, that he
returned to his habitation. He did not seek his niece, who had
retired for the night. He proceeded at once to the apartment
of Sylvia. The hag was prepared to meet him with complaints.

“You must send that idle wench, Juana, to the hacienda. She
must be made to work the ground. She is of no service here.
I can get nothing out of her. She is continually absent; when
she returns, and I scold her, she is insolent. She is after mischief.
These absences are for no good. You had best send her away,
and get one more willing in her place.”

At that moment Juana presented herself. Her first salutation

was at the hands of Don Balthazar, in a blow from his double
fist, which smote her to the earth. She rose with the blood spirting
from her nostrils.

“Hence!” he exclaimed, with a voice of thunder and a brutal
oath. “Hence! To-morrow you go to the country.”

Juana disappeared—but not too far. She waited at the door
and listened, her nose dropping blood all the while. She did not
observe it. She scarcely felt the pain. The blood of the red
man in her veins supplied her with one feeling only, and that
was for the indignity. She listened. She reserved herself for
her own time; but resolved that she would not go to the country.
We shall see.

Meanwhile, a long conference followed between Don Balthazar
and Sylvia, in regard to Olivia.

“She eats nothing that I provide her. I know not how she
lives.”

“She has supplied herself secretly from other sources. That
girl—”

“Impossible! I have watched her. She has carried her nothing.”

Juana, as she listened, reproached herself that such was the
case. She had never thought of the wants of her young mistress.
She now resolved to supply them from her own stores. She
now became more resolved than ever to befriend the damsel,
who suddenly rose before her eyes as an object of sympathizing
interest. But she did not leave the door. She had still other
things to hear.

“Here is more of the potion!” said Don Balthazar, giving the
phial. “To-morrow I will see that she goes forth. In her absence
search her apartments. If you find food, you know what
to do with it.”

This is all that need concern us of this conference. When
Don Balthazar was about to leave the apartment, his eye caught
sight of the blood upon the floor which had fallen from the nostrils
of Juana.

“What is this?” he said, stooping.

“Ha! ha!” laughed the old woman as she looked down.
“Her nose has caught it. Your hand is not a light one, Señor.”

“She shall find it heavier yet. But are your sure?”

“Yes; see here—drop—drop—drop—even to the door.”

The old woman pointed out the tracks; but on the outside
they found it in a puddle.

“Ha!” exclaimed the Don, “the wench has loitered here.
She has listened to all that has been said. But we must fix her
for it. Mix the potion with her food, also. If she shares it with
Olivia, well! our end is answered. That is the secret. Olivia has
bribed her. She supplies her with food, so that the girl can well
reject her own. Now we have her. But take all precautions;
and when she goes forth to-morrow, search her chamber. Meanwhile,
do you go to the room of Juana and see what she is about.
Put on a gentle manner with her. Beguile her. Do not spare
your reproaches of my violence. I will go to the chamber of
Olivia, and see in like manner after her.”

The old woman threw off her slippers and softly stole to the
room of Juana. Don Balthazar waited awhile, and then followed
slowly, on his way to the apartment of his niece, which was beyond
it. When he drew nigh, he found Sylvia emerging from
Juana's chamber.

“She is not there,” said she in a whisper.

“Ha! she is then here!” He pointed to Olivia's door. “Go
down and wait.” He spoke in a whisper also. The old woman
disappeared. Don Balthazar tried the door gently—it was locked
within. He drew a steel probe from his pocket, stooped, and
touched a secret spring in the panel. It silently unclosed; and
crouching nearly to the floor, he succeeded, without noise, in entering
the apartment. A dim light burned upon a table. The
uncle looked up, and was confounded to see his niece seated, her
eyes quietly beholding all his movements. Don Balthazar felt
all the shame and meanness of his proceeding, in the unexpected
discovery. Seared, reckless, indurated as he was, he could not
suppress the sudden flush that overspread his cheeks, nor conceal
the confusion which paralyzed his movement and for a moment

arrested his speech. The face of Olivia declared her equal scorn
and loathing. She never rose, but looking on him with pitiless
composure, she exclaimed,—

“This, then, is the noble process for accomplishing my destruction!—worthy
of a noble knight—thrice worthy a Castilian
gentleman—and altogether becoming a guardian and a kinsman!”

The uncle rose, recovering himself, with the erect position.

“Thy destruction, girl! What dost thou mean? Dost thou
think I come to murder thee?”

“And what else should I think, when thou comest in such
fashion, at such an hour, and through an avenue which is secret
to thyself? Why shouldst thou not murder me? and why, if
such be not thy object, shouldst thou thus visit my place of sleeping?
But thou well knowest I meant not that! Thou know'st
that,—thanks to thy other means of destruction! I have now no
fear of any hurt thou canst do to this poor life. Wert thou capable
of a noble charity, I would entreat of thee to end it—to take
thy dagger from thy girdle, and here, with no witness but the
Holy Virgin, and that Heaven who will at last avenge my cause,
strike me to the heart, and close the eyes which now see nothing
but mine own shame.”

“Olivia, thou art quite too passionate and wild!”

“Am I then, with the sight of thee, at this hour, knowing what
thou art, knowing what terrible wrongs thou hast done to me, and
seeing, for the first time, one of the secret modes by which thou
hast destroyed the very life of my life,—my hope, my soul, forever!”

“Poh! Poh! How thou relatest these matters. I tell thee,
were it not for thy own thoughts and fancies, thou hast suffered no
wrong, no hurt,—nothing which should keep thee from being as
gay as the gayest, and as happy as the best. Look at thy friend,
Leonora de Tobar—”

“Speak to me nothing of her! Were it even as thou sayest,
that my grief and shame are only in mine own thoughts and fancies,
is it not the most terrible of wrongs that thou hast planted
them there, so that their dreadful forms and images keep me from

joy by day, and haunt my sleep by night with worse terrors than
the grave! But, enough! Wilt thou not leave me to-night in
peace—with such peace as thy crime may permit to a hopeless
penitent?”

“Is no one with thee here? I look for the girl, Juana?”

“Did search of her bring thee hither? There is no one with
us but the Virgin Mother, and the Saints who have pity on the
orphan. Hence, and leave me.”

“One thing more before I depart. The Lady Isabella has commissioned
me to entreat thee to come to her to-morrow. She
wants thy help and taste in certain draperies. I have promised
that thou wilt attend her.”

“And what if I say I will not? What am I, with the consciousness
which I carry with me, that I should dare look in the
face of such pure and noble person! But go—leave me. I will
attend the Lady Isabella.”

“'Tis well!—Thou hast not seen Juana? She hath not been
with thee?”

“She is thy creature—one who hath helped for my destruction.
What should I do with her? I loathe the sight of all who belong
to thee!”

The Don, now thoroughly savage, replied—

“I go! But, mark me, girl, thou wilt one day so enrage me
with thy insolence that I shall make thee tremble with such a terror
as thou dost not dream of.”

“Be it what thou wilt of violence, only let it not be shame,
and there shall be no tremors.”

“We shall see! Open the door. I will leave thee.”

“Depart as thou cam'st!” she replied, rising and taking the
key from the lock, while for a moment the scorn upon her lips
was lightened by a bitter smile. He looked furiously upon her,
and made a step towards her, as if bent to wrest the key from
her grasp; but a more cautious mood prevailed with him, and
with anger that increased the awkwardness of his method of departure,
full under her eyes the while, he scrambled through the
panel, which instantly closed after him. Olivia hastily seized the

light, and proceeded to examine it; but the secret spring was too
well adjusted not to elude her search.

Full of anger, and with a fierce oath upon his lips, Don Balthazar
rejoined the old woman, his creature and confederate,
below.

“Well,” said he, “hast thou found the wench, Juana?”

“She is gone. She is not within the house!”

“She shall taste the Calabózo to-morrow. See to what I have
told thee when the Señorita goes forth, and make the search
thorough. She hath concealments of which you know not. Do
thy duty well, Sylvia, in this business, if thou wouldst be sure
of my favor. In particular, do thou observe the outgoings of this
wench, Juana. She hath questionless been bribed by her lady.
See to her!”

Juana, meanwhile, was hidden in the groves with a companion.
In the shadow of the great orange trees the features of neither
were discernible; but he was a man, huge of size and bold of
speech. He treated her as if she were a child; but tenderly, as
if he were her father.

“Never you mind,” said he, at parting with her; “the goods
shall be had, and the blood shall be paid for! Only a little while.
To keep from the meat awhile, is to strengthen the stomach. It
is a strong man only who can wait. He drinks long who drinks
slowly. Swallow thy tears, lest they blind thee. To-morrow is
better for work than yesterday; and a good appetite better than
a bad digestion. Take thy sleep now, my child, that thou may'st
wake with both thine eyes open.”