"For half a year I stayed with my brother. Though no daughter ever shed truer tears over the grave of better parents, I was not then quite broken-hearted. There was another love to whisper hope, and to keep me from desolation. He--Alphonso ('tis years and years since I uttered the name save in my prayers) had gone to the war, telling me he would come back and claim me for his bride. So I watched for him hour by hour, and toiled and spun, and spun and toiled, that I might not go home to him empty-handed. But at last a lad from our parish, who had been a comrade of his, returned and told me all. _He_ was lying on the b.l.o.o.d.y field of Marignano, with a French bullet in his heart. Senor, the sisters you read of could 'go to the grave and weep there.' And yet the Lord pitied them."

"He pities all who weep," said Carlos.

"All good Christians, he may. But though an old Christian, I was not a good one. For I thought it bitter hard that my candle should be quenched in a moment, like a wax taper when the procession is done. And it came often into my mind how the Almighty, or Our Lady, or the Saints, could have helped me if they would. May they forgive me; it is hard to be religious."

"I do not think so."

"I suppose it is not hard to learned gentlemen who have been at the colleges. But how can simple men and women tell whether they are keeping all the commandments of G.o.d and Holy Church? It well may be that I had done something, or left something undone, whereby Our Lady was displeased."

"It is not Our Lady, but our Lord himself, who holds the keys of h.e.l.l and of death," said Carlos, gaining at the moment a new truth for his own heart. "None enter the gates of death, as none shall come forth through them, save at his command. But go on, Dolores, and tell me how did comfort come to you?"

"Comfort never came to me, senor. But after a time there came a kind of numbness and hardness that helped me to live my life as if I cared for it. And your lady mother (G.o.d rest her soul!) showed me wondrous kindness in my sorrow. It was then she took me to be her own maiden.

She had me taught many things, such as reading and various cunning kinds of embroidery, that I might serve her with them, she said; but I well knew they were meant to turn my heart away from its own aching. I went with her to Seville. I could be glad for her, senor, that G.o.d had given her the good thing he had denied to me. At last it came to be almost like joy to me to see the great deep love there was between your father and her."

This was a degree of unselfishness beyond the comprehension of Carlos just then. He felt his own wound throb painfully, and was not sorry to turn the conversation. "Did my parents reside long in Seville?" he asked.

"Not long, senor. Their life there was a gay one, as became their rank and wealth (for, as your worship knows, your father had a n.o.ble estate then). But soon they both grew tired of the gay world. My lady ever loved the free mountains, and my lord--I scarce can tell what change pa.s.sed over him. He lost his care for the tourney and the dance, and betook himself instead to study. Both were glad to withdraw to this quiet spot. Here your brother Don Juan was born; and for nigh a year after wards no lord and lady could have led a happier and, at the same time, more pious and orderly life, than did your n.o.ble parents."

The thoughtful eye of Carlos turned to the inscription on the window, and kindled with a strange light. "Was not this room my father's favourite place of study?" he asked.

"It was, senor. Of course, the house was not then as it now is. Though simple enough, after the Seville palace with its fountains and marble statues, and doors grated with golden net work, it was still a seemly dwelling-place for a n.o.ble lord and lady. There was gla.s.s in all the windows then, though through neglect and carelessness it has been broken (even your worship nay remember how Don Juan sent an arrow through a quarrel pane in the west window one day), so we thought it best to remove the traces."

"My parents led a pious life, you say?"

"Truly they did, senor. They were good and charitable to the poor; and they spent much of their time reading holy books, as you do now. Ay de mi! what was wrong with them I know not, save that perhaps they were scarce careful enough to give Holy Church all her dues. And I used sometimes to wish that my lady would show more devotion to the blessed Mother of G.o.d. But she _felt_ it all, no doubt; only it was not her way, nor my lord's either, to be for ever running about on pilgrimage or offering wax candles, nor yet to keep the father confessor every instant with his ear to their lips."

Carlos started, and turned an earnest inquiring gaze upon her. "Did my mother ever read to you as I have done?" he asked.

"She sometimes read me good words out of the Breviary, senor. All thing went on thus, until one day when a letter came from the Emperor himself (as I believe), desiring your father to go to him, to Antwerp. The matter was to be kept very private, but my lady used to tell me everything. My lord thought he was to be sent on some secret mission where skill was needed, and perchance peril was to be met. For it was well known that he loved such affairs, and was dexterous in the management of them. So he parted cheerily from my lady, she standing at the gate yonder, and making little Don Juan kiss hands to him as he rode down the path. Woe for the poor babe, that never saw his father's face again! And worse woe for the mother! But death heals all things, except sin.

"After three weeks or a month, more or less, two monks of St. Dominic rode to the gates one day. The younger stayed without in the hall with us; while the elder, a man of stern and stately presence, had private audience of my lady in this chamber where we sit now--a place of death it has seemed to me ever since. For the audience had not lasted long until I heard a cry--such a cry!--it rings in nay ears even now. I hastened to my lady. She had swooned--and long, long was it before sense returned again. Do not keep looking at me, senor, with eyes so like hers, or I cannot tell you more."

"Did she speak? Did she reveal anything to you?"

"_Nothing_, senor. During the days that followed, only things without meaning or connection, such as those in fever speak, or broken words of prayer, were on her lips. Until the very last, and then she was worn and weak, and could but receive the rites of the Church, and whisper a few directions about the poor babes. She bade us give you the name you bear, since he had said that his next boy should be called for the great Emperor. Then she prayed very earnestly, 'Lord, take him Thyself--take him Thyself!' Doctor Marco, who was present, thought she meant the poor little new-born babe--supposing, and no wonder, that it would be better tended in heaven by Our Lady and the angels, than here on earth. But I know it was not you she thought of."

"My poor mother--G.o.d rest her soul! Nay, I doubt not that now she rests in G.o.d," Carlos added, softly.

"And so the curse fell on your house, senor; and in such sorrow were you born. Yet you grew up merry lads, you and Don Juan."

"Thanks to thy care and kindness, well-beloved and faithful nurse. But, Dolores, tell me truly--have you never heard anything further of, or from, my father?"

"From him, never. Of him, that I believed, _never_."

"And what do you believe?" Carlos asked, eagerly.

"I know nothing, senor. I have heard all that your worship has heard, and no more."

"Do you think it is true--what we have all been told--of his death in the Indies?"

"I know nothing, senor," Dolores repeated, with the air of a person determined to _say_ nothing.

But Carlos would not allow her to escape thus. Both had gone too far to leave the subject without probing it to its depths. And both felt instinctively that it was not likely again to be discussed between them.

Laying his hand on her arm, and looking steadily in her face, he asked,--

"Dolores, are you sure my father is dead?"

Seemingly relieved by the form the question had taken, she met his gaze without flinching, and answered in tones of evident sincerity, "Sure as that I sit here--so help me G.o.d." After a long pause she added, as she rose to go, "Senor Don Carlos, be not offended if I counsel you this once, since I held you a babe in my arms, and you will find none that loves you better--if a poor old woman may say so to a young and n.o.ble caballero."

"Say all you think to me, my dear and kind nurse."

"Then, senor, I say, leave vain thoughts and questions about your father's fate. 'There are no birds in last year's nests;' and 'Water that has run by will turn no mill.' And I entreat of you to repeat the same to your n.o.ble brother when you find opportunity. Look before you, senor, and not behind; and G.o.d's best blessings rest on you!"

Dolores turned to go, but turning back again, stood irresolute.

"What is it, Dolores?" Carlos asked; hoping, perhaps, for some further glimmer of light upon that dark past, from which she implored him to turn his thoughts.

"If it please you, Senor Don Carlos--" and she paused and hesitated.

"Can I do anything for you?" said Carlos, in a kind, encouraging tone.

"Ay, senor, that you can. With your learning and your good Book, surely you can tell me whether the soul of my poor Alphonso, dead on the battle-field without shrift or sacrament, has yet found rest with G.o.d?"

Thus the tree woman's heart, though so full of sympathy for others, still turned back to its own sorrow, which lay deepest of all.

Carlos felt himself unexpectedly involved in a difficulty. "My book tells me nothing on the subject," he said, after some thought. "But I am sure you may be comforted, after all these years, during which you have diligently prayed, and sought the Church's prayers for him."

The long eager gaze of her wistful eyes asked mournfully, "Is this _all_ you can tell me?" But her lips only said, "I thank your Excellency," as she withdrew.

XI.

The Light Enjoyed.

"Doubt is slow to clear and sorrow is hard to bear, And each sufferer has his say, his scheme of the weal and the woe; But G.o.d has a few of us whom he whispers in the ear; The rest may reason and welcome, 'tis we musicians _know_."--R.

Browning

Bewildering were the trains of thought which the conversation just narrated awakened in the mind of Carlos. On the one hand, a gleam of light was shed upon his father's career, suggesting a possible interpretation of the inscription on the window, that thrilled his heart with joy. On the other, the termination of that career was involved in even deeper obscurity than before; and he was made to feel, more keenly than ever, how childish and unreal were the dreams which he and his brother had been wont to cherish upon the subject.

Moreover, Dolores, just before she left him, had drawn a bow at a venture, and most unintentionally sent a sharp arrow through a joint in his harness. Why could he find no answer to a question so simple and natural as the one she had asked him? Why did the Book, which had solved so many mysteries for him, shed not a ray of light upon this one?

Whence this ominous silence of the apostles and evangelists upon so many things that the Church most loudly proclaimed? Where, in his Book, was purgatory to be found at all? Where was the adoration of the Virgin and the saints? Where were works of supererogation? But here he started in horror, as one who suddenly saw himself on the brink of a precipice. Or rather, as one dwelling secure and contented within a little circle of light and warmth, to whom such questions came as intimations of a chaos surrounding it on every side, into which a chance step might at any moment plunge him.

Most earnestly he entreated that the Lord of his life, the Guide of his spirit, would not let him go forth to wander there. He prayed, expressly and repeatedly, that the doubts which began to trouble him might be laid and silenced. His prayer was answered, as all true prayer is sure to be, but it was not granted. He whose love is strong and deep enough to work out its good purpose in us even against the pleadings of our own hearts, saw that his child must needs pa.s.s through "a land of darkness"

to reach the clearer light beyond. Conflicts fierce and terrible must be his portion, if indeed he were to take his place amongst those "called and chosen and faithful" ones who, having stood beside the Lamb in his contest with Antichrist, shall stand beside him on the sea of gla.s.s mingled with fire.