University of Virginia Library

20. CHAPTER XX.

Then it was, while all was commotion in the assembly, that
the passionate love of Don Philip for the unconscious damsel in
his arms, overcame and banished all the previous calm and
steadfastness in his manner. He thought her dead. There was
no color in her cheeks, no life in her eyes, no pulsation in her
veins. He cried aloud for succor, while drawing her closely to
his bosom, as if to warm her anew with his own tumultuous
fires. Before any one could interpose, he had borne her back to
the seat, supporting her with vigorous arm, and appealing to her
consciousness by the most endearing efforts and expressions. He
was at that moment freed from all the conventional restraints
which had hitherto made his passion cautious, and taught concealment
as the proper policy of love. He was now not unwilling
that the world should hear what he had hitherto never declared
to her, and with the sense of her danger and his loss, he
became indifferent to the opinion of those around, a regard to
which is so characteristic of the proud and sensitive nature. But
he was not suffered long to indulge in a situation which he found
so painfully sweet. He was brought to consciousness by the interposition
of other persons. Don Balthazar de Alvaro was soon
at his side, and, laying his hand with rather a rude grasp upon
the shoulder of our knight, he bade him release the lady to those
who could better effect her restoration, and who were the most
proper persons to attempt it. Next came the wife of Tobar, followed
by the lady of the Adelantado and others, to whom Philip was

compelled to resign her. To these he yielded her, though with
reluctance. He shook off the grasp of Don Balthazar, and answered
his looks and words with an abruptness of manner, and a
glance of fire, which declared the hostility and scorn which he
truly felt, and in which the uncle was taught to read the language
of defiance. Olivia was borne away by the female attendants.
The Lady Isabella would have had her conveyed to her palace,
but Don Balthazar, in a very resolute manner, resisted this arrangement,
and she was conveyed at once to his own residence.
The amusements of the day were over. The trumpets sounded the
retreat; the audience slowly melted away; but long before the
assembly was dispersed, Philip de Vasconselos had disappeared
from the public sight.

He proceeded at once to the lodgings of his brother, but did
not see him, as he feared that his presence would only increase
the disorder of the latter. He ascertained, however, that his delirium
and fever did not increase, and that he was well attended.
The physician of De Soto himself had been sent him,
and had administered some soothing drugs, after taking from
him a goodly quantity of blood. He still remained with him,
and would not suffer him to be disturbed. The attack had been
severe as sudden, but it was not of prolonged duration; and judicious
treatment, seconded by the youth and vigor of his constitution,
enabled him, after a few days, to rise again to his feet. In a
week he was able to resume his armor, and to exercise at the
head of his little company. But he remained comparatively feeble
for some time, and the mortification which he had suffered
hung like a dark shadow upon his soul. He became habitually
gloomy and morose; addressing himself wholly to military studies
and exercises, and never suffering himself to be seen in sosciety.
Gradually he began to entertain more just and generous
feelings towards his brother, though from this period there was
no longer any cordiality between them. The events which were
yet to occur served, in great degree, to disarm him of that
jealous hostility to Philip which had been the sole cause of his
recent madness. Philip, though solicitous of his health and

safety, never obtruded himself upon him. He was content to
leave to time the work of repair. But we must not anticipate.

The recovery of Olivia de Alvaro was much more rapid than
that of her rejected lover. What remedies were employed
in her case, were not suffered to be known; but the very next day
found her able to sit up and converse. Leonora de Tobar sate some
time with her. Donna Isabella was also pleased to visit her,
and other ladies shared in their friendly attentions. But while
recovering her consciousness, and in some degree her health, Olivia
sank into a sort of sober melancholy, which no arts or attentions
of her female companions could possibly reach. An exterior of the
most stolid indifference encountered the friendly solicitude which
sought to soothe and heal; and while her deportment was all gentleness
and meekness, her heart was yet closed against all efforts to
probe its secret, or ascertain its apprehensions or its wants. To Leonora
de Tobar her case seemed a singularly mysterious one. She
knew that she loved Philip de Vasconselos beyond all other men.
She was now sure, as was all the world, that he loved her beyond
all other women. What more? Why should either of them be unhappy?
The whole affair was very incomprehensible to her, and
afforded her a fruitful and constant subject for expostulation with
the sufferer, and speculation with all other parties.

Don Balthazar was the only person who properly understood
the whole difficulty. He had his fears of the case, as well as a
full knowledge of its peculiarities. His hope of security, strange
to say, was based upon what he knew to be the virtues of the
damsel. He relied wholly upon her justice and magnanimity, to
defeat the suit of the Knight of Portugal. But his fears were still
active. He apprehended that the weakness of the woman would
get the better part of her sense of justice. He knew the sensuous
nature of the sex, and the paramount strength of their feelings.
Could Olivia really be capable of rejecting the lover whom
she preferred before all others, simply because of a cold sentiment
of honor and propriety? Why should she not keep her secret,
and thus secure her triumph? He still dreaded that she
would resolve on this. He had too little nobleness himself to

rely upon that of another; and the recent event lessened materially
his confidence in the firmness of her virtue, which was at
present all his security. Of course it is understood that he can
never be reconciled to her union with Philip, or, indeed, with any
man. We have but imperfectly unfolded our narrative thus far,
if it be now necessary that we should endeavor to establish this
fact. His selfishness, at once of avarice and passion, was a settled
necessity, and utterly adverse to her finding happiness, according
to the dictates of her affections.

But it was necessary to confirm her in her previously expressed
and virtuous resolution of self-denial. He was required to
strengthen her determination against the pleadings of her own
heart, as well as of her lover, to lessen the strength of her feelings
by stimulating her propriety, and to keep her virtuous magnanimity
active, as a barrier against her passion. This he now
perceived to be more powerful than he, or even she, had previously
suspected. He had watched her through all the caprices
of the tournament, and had seen the warmth and violence of her
feelings, written in her face and action amidst all the changes of
the struggle. “She is not to be trusted to her own sentiments,”
was his reflection. “She may resolve as she pleases, in her quiet
moments of thought; but let Philip de Vasconselos kneel imploring
at her feet, and she will probably forget all her honorable
resolves. She will yield to his entreaties, before she is conscious
of the extremity of her admissions. I must provide against this.”
Let us see what are his processes for effecting his objects.

Olivia was reclining upon a couch in the apartment opening
upon the verandah. There Don Balthazar suddenly presented
himself. She looked up at his appearance, with eyes full of so
sad a reproach, that, had he been capable of a generous impression,
would have made him instantly contrite. But he was not
capable of the nobleness of self-reproach. A more cold, selfish,
heartless nature, never dwelt in the breast of man. He took
his seat beside her, and assumed his most conciliating manner.

“Well, my child, you are better, and I am glad to see it; but
you have quite too many chattering visitors. They will only

weary and distress you. The tongue of that silly wife of Tobar
is enough to madden any invalid, and there are others of like
sort, who do not so much desire to soothe or amuse, as to exercise
their tongues and curiosity. What you want is peace and
quiet.”

“Peace and quiet! where am I to find them?”

“Why not? There is no reason why you should not find both,
if you are only moderate in your expectations. It is the unreasonable
and extravagant hopes of youth alone that keep peace and
quiet from any bosom.”

“Hopes! Do you really suppose that I entertain any hopes?”

“Indeed! Do you not? and why, if you entertain no hopes,
do you encourage these painful and oppressive sensibilities, that
keep you only in a continual agony?”

“It is for this very reason, that I can entertain no hopes, that
these agonizing sensibilities are mine. But I surely need not say
this to you.”

“My dear child, do not deceive yourself. You do entertain
hopes and expectations, and it is these that keep alive and active
these moods and sensibilities. I know you better than you do
yourself. You may deceive yourself, in moments of solitude,
with the idea that you have nothing to live for. But events will
be apt to put all these notions out of your head. You are now
so much better that you will soon have other visitors.”

“Who! what mean you?”

“Your Portuguese cavalier will soon be here, no doubt, and on
his knees before you. It is inevitable, after what has taken place,
that he will come, and must. He has fairly committed himself
in the eyes of the world; he will soon find it necessary to complete
his progress by a formal offer of his hand.”

“And you think I will accept him?”

“Well; there is some danger of it. The truth is, my dear
child, you are not the mistress of your own affections. He has
too much enslaved your imagination to suffer you to escape him.
You love him quite too intensely to reject his prayer.”

“Alas! It is because I so much love him that I will reject him.

I may be degraded, uncle—I am—and you well know why I am,
and who has degraded me;—but I am not base! I will not sink
lower in my own esteem, in doing such a terrible wrong to a nature
so noble as that of the knight of Portugal, by uniting his
honor with my shame!”

“Who knows that there is any shame?”

“God!”

“Ah! perhaps! But you have no apprehension that he will
be at any pains to make it known?”

“I know not that. Guilt is ever in danger of exposure.
Shame is like the cloud, that, whether the star will or will not,
rises at any hour, with the winds, to blot its beautiful surface.
But whether the world knows or not—whether God permits the
truth to be revealed or not—alters not the case to me. It is
enough that I know the terrible shame that hangs upon my soul
like night. Enough, that I too much love Don Philip de Vasconselos
to bestow my consciousness of ignominy upon him.”

“This is all mere sentiment, my child.”

“Sentiment! But you speak as if you really desired that I
should wed with the knight of Portugal?”

“No! By Satan, no! I hate, I loathe the man, and I love
you, my child. Never, with my consent, shall you take him to
your arms.”

“Why, then, leave it to doubt? Why impose upon me the
task which you yet think me too weak to execute? Forbid him
the house—forbid him the quest—and put an end to all your apprehensions.”

“Would that process be effectual? No, no! my child, that
will never answer. Our customs here, in Cuba, would not suffer
it. What would everybody say of me? It would wrap me in
a thousand strifes and embarrassments. Besides, Don Philip de
Vasconselos would not suffer any such evasion; and the Adelantado
would sustain him in the assertion of the right to see you.
No! no! he must not be denied every opportunity, and the whole
matter must be left to your own decision.”

“That is already made! I can never be the wife of Don

Philip. Were I other than the thing I am, I should know no
greater happiness. As I am, it is impossible that I should think
of happiness, or should so wrong him in my desire for it, as to
unite my grief and shame to his honor and his fortunes.”

“And I repeat, you know not yourself. You have not the
strength for this. You mean as you say, no doubt, now that you
are comparatively calm, and when he is not present; but when
he appears, and you see him before you—at your feet,—where
will be your fine resolutions? You will yield. You will consent,—you
will forget all your nice sentiments, and keep your
secret, and be happy!”

“Leave me,” she said calmly. “You do not know me. Still
less do you know how you annoy and humble me. Enough for
you that you are secure in your wishes, whatever may be mine.
I cannot marry Don Philip; I will not; though I tell you frankly,
that I should know no greater secret of happiness than this, were
this possible. You have doomed me to loss of all! Leave me
now.”

“But you must take your medicine, Olivia.”

“I will take nothing at your hands.”

“Why not?”

“You have drugged me enough. I fear to drink—to eat—almost
to breathe—knowing upon what poisons you have fed me.”

“This is foolish. On my honor, you have nothing to fear
now.”

“Oh! if you asseverate so solemnly, I am sure there is danger!
Take it away! I will not drink, though I perish.”

“Obstinate! I tell you, this is the potion provided by the
physician.”

“It has passed through your hands.”

“Am I poison?”

“Ay, death! worse than death! shame, horror, hell! Do not
vex me;—leave me! I will trust you in nothing, I tell you! Is
it not enough that you have destroyed every hope; would you
torture me without a purpose?”

“You are mad! Is it torture that I should give you the very
medicine which has been prescribed for you?”

“I am not sure that it is the same! You have the art to alter
the nature of all things that approach me. You change the helpful
to the hurtful—the good to the bad. By the Holy Virgin,
uncle, were it not for the wrong that I should do to another, I
should wed with the knight of Portugal, if only to find an
avenger—to be sure of one to whom I might say—Slay me this
monster, who has destroyed me, soul and body!”

Don Balthazar hurled the cup of physic to the floor, and with
a look of the fiercest anger, and a half-muttered curse, he strode
hastily out of the apartment.

“Thank God!” said the poor girl as he disappeared, “I breathe
more freely!”

And she sunk into a long, sad revery; and the thought of Don
Philip came to her, and brought with it fancies of the most bright
and cheering felicity. She fancied him at her feet; she thought
of herself in his arms. The world shut out, in the lone security
of their mountain hacienda, she said to herself—“Surely this is
happiness,—this is security and peace! And why,” she asked of
herself, “should I not enjoy this peace, this security, this happiness?
What have I done that I should deny myself to live? Am
I guilty of this crime—this shame? Is it mine? Am I not a
wretched victim only of the toils, and the arts, and the superior
powers of another? Have I, in my own soul, consented to this
surrender of my innocence to the spoiler? Wherefore should I
suffer more? Have I not suffered enough? Why should I not
be happy with him I love, true to him ever, and never willingly
false to Heaven or myself? It is a secret from all but one, this
shame that is my sorrow; and that one, for his own sake, dare
not whisper it to the bird that flies! Alas! alas! my heart,
whither would you carry me? Would you have me abuse
his noble trust for your pleasure? Oh! be still, lest in my
weakness I commit a wrong as great as that which I have suffered!”

Such, in brief, were the prolonged meditations of the unhappy

woman throughout the melancholy hours of her solitude. Her
passion for Philip de Vasconselos was now perpetually suggesting
to her mind fresh arguments against the virtuous resolution
which, in cooler moments, had been the conclusion of her thought.
She felt that her resolution was growing momently more and
more weak; but still she combated herself; argued with her
own thought, strove nobly against her heart, and all its really
innocent desires, and bewildered finally, and exhausted, she surrendered
herself at last to the dreamiest revery, such as naturally
occurs to the sensuous nature, in the delicious climate in which
she dwelt. In this revery, in which every breath was soft, every
glance fair and wooing, every influence possessing the magic of a
spell upon the affections, she found temporary refuge, against
that severer virtue which counselled nothing less than self-denial
and sacrifice! Ah! who is strong for such a sacrifice when every
passion of the dependent and loving nature wars against it!
Will Olivia de Alvaro be able to keep her vow, when Philip de
Vasconselos bows before her? She trembles as she thinks of it;
but still—she thinks of it! Her thought evermore recurs, after
long wandering, to his expected coming! Will he come? will
he not? Can he otherwise? And, should he come,—and when
he comes,—then—shall she find the strength to say to him “depart!”—And
should he linger—should he deny to go—should
he ask “wherefore?”—what answer shall she make? Can she say,
I have no love to give in return, when she really has nothing in
her heart but love for him? And if she cannot, in truth, and
from her heart say this, what plea shall justify her denial of his
prayer? It is thus that she begins to conjure up, for her own
conscience, the difficulties which stand in the way of her own
self-sacrifice. It is thus that the ingenious passions argue the
case with the honest thought. Which shall triumph in the end?
Olivia de Alvaro is a most weak, most loving woman—she is
passionate, too, with all the intense fires of the south. She
means nobly, her thought is rightly advised; and she would act
according to the dictates of a justly governed conscience; but,
when the passions strive, what mind is strong against them?—
when the heart loves, with entire devotion, where are the thoughts
which shall extinguish its glowing fires? As well say to the rising
floods of ocean—“Sink back, with all your billows, and rest
calmly in the bosom of your floods.” The struggle between soul
and heart, in the case of Olivia de Alvaro, is but begun. How
will it end? Verily, there is very good reason why Don Balthazar
should be apprehensive. Truly, he knows, better than
his niece, how great is her weakness! But he will not leave
her wholly alone, to fight the battle with her passions. He will
frequently come mockingly to her succor, and, by torturing her
pride into passion, will seek to subdue the force of other passions.
He has all the subtlety of the serpent: will he use it
successfully? It is very certain that he will spare no arts to
defeat the hopes of the two young hearts, who, but for his evil
working, had long since been rendered happy.