The Spanish Cavalier: A Story of Seville

CHAPTER VI.

A SISTER'S SACRIFICE

It is the dawn of a sweet Sabbath morn, peaceful and calm. The last lingering star is trembling still in the sky, but the fleecy clouds have caught a tint of rose from the not yet risen sun.

By the archway of the dwelling of the Aguileras stands a bay horse, gaily caparisoned. His saddlecloth has been made out of a Moorish mantle striped with gold, a relic of happier days. Deep fringes of scarlet girdle his chest and encircle his haunches, and tassels of the same bright hue hang from the band above his eyes. The noble animal looks conscious of his dignity; he has been generously fed for the last few days, and the unwonted luxury of corn has restored to the old war-horse some of his former spirit. But "with arched neck, and drooping head, and glancing eye, and quivering ear," Campeador gently receives the caresses of the young mistress whose hand has helped to deck and to feed him, and who with tears and sighs is bidding him now farewell.

Inez is no striking specimen of Spanish beauty, though her appearance on this morning must have awakened sympathy and interest even in a stranger. Her graceful form is rather below the middle size; she has the clear brunette complexion and the large almond-shaped eyes, shaded with long dark lashes, which are characteristic of the Andalusian race. The cheek is very pale, and the eyes are heavy with weeping, and the slender hand trembles as it strokes Campeador's long flowing mane.

Inez has passed a restless, miserable night, devising all kinds of wild schemes for keeping her brother from the perilous encounter; schemes which melted away with the first gleam of morning light. If she kept back his horse, if she detained his accoutrements, Alcala, his sister well knew, would but provide himself with others. He would rather ride into the circus on one of the wretched hacks destined for slaughter, than fail at the hour of appointment. Inez could now but send, both by letter and word, entreaties to her brother that he would at least come and see her before going to the Plaza de Toros. The letter and messages were intrusted to Chico, a dark-browed, bandy-legged, ill-favoured groom, who was to lead the horse about a mile beyond the boundaries of Seville, to the Posada de Quesada, where Alcala had chosen to pass the preceding night. Chico's stunted form was half hidden under the burden of finery which he carried; he did not, however, bear with him the picador's spear, for that needful weapon Alcala had selected for himself, not trusting the choice of it to a servant.

A little in the rear of the group appeared Teresa; but Lucius, had he been present, would scarcely have recognized in her the work-soiled, poorly-dressed old drudge whom he had seen bargaining with the hawker. Teresa was now attired in her best Sunday apparel; and the look of complacent pride on her wrinkled face was in strong contrast to that of despairing sorrow on that of her youthful lady. Teresa allowed herself the one annual treat of going to a bull-fight, to her Spanish mind the greatest of pleasures. She had a cousin to whom belonged the office of cleansing the blood-stained arena, and who always contrived to smuggle Teresa into a good seat, she being content to go early and wait for hours before the entertainment began. Nothing would have bribed the ancient Andalusian to have been absent from the Plaza de Toros on the present occasion; her strong desire to go overcame her reluctance to leaving for the greater part of the day her infirm old mistress and the sorrowing Inez. To Teresa, blinded by pride even greater than that which usually characterizes the Spaniard, the coming struggle in the Plaza de Toros appeared in a very different light from that in which it was viewed by Alcala's more clear-minded and tender-hearted sister. Full of the glories of the race of heroes from whom her master was descended, Teresa felt not a doubt that she was going to be a witness to his triumph. It had been a bitter humiliation to the old domestic to know that Alcala was earning his bread by honest industry. Had he consulted Teresa, the family might have starved before the caballero had so demeaned himself as to work for the firm of Messrs. Passmore and Perkins. But it was a very different thing to behold Don Alcala de Aguilera ride in magnificent array into the Coliseo, to confront danger with all the courage of his race, and win the plaudits of assembled thousands. Teresa felt as an old retainer of some knight might have done in days of chivalry, when his master rode forth, with gilded spurs and waving plume, to win honour in the lists at some brilliant tourney. To Teresa's partial eyes Campeador was the noblest of steeds, worthy to carry the bravest of masters. The arm of an Aguilera, once raised to strike, must hurl to the dust whatever opposed it. Teresa would not have feared the result had Alcala had, like Hercules, to slay the Nemean lion.

And the hopes of Teresa extended far beyond the triumph of a day. Donna Antonia de Rivadeo, the wealthiest as well as the most beautiful heiress in Seville, was to be present at the gran foncion in the Coliseo. The lady would look on Alcala no longer as the drudging clerk, serving a foreign heretic, but as the chivalrous caballero of Andalusia, valiant as ever was knight who couched lance against the Moors in the time of Queen Isabella. The days of pinching poverty and humiliation would be ended at last; Alcala would spear his bull, and win his beautiful bride, and Teresa would receive at last the reward of her long faithful service. In imagination Teresa, in the richest and stiffest of silks, already presided over a numerous household in a sumptuous palace, instead of toiling from morning till night, ill paid and scantily fed, with no one to abuse and order about but bandy-legged Chico, who always disputed her commands. Such bright visions seemed to take ten years of age from the ambitious Teresa, and she saw with impatience and indignation the grief which showed how little Inez shared in such hopes.

"Shame on those tears, Donna Inez!" exclaimed old Teresa. "It is well that your illustrious brother is not here to see your weakness; it would make the caballero blush for his sister! Are you a daughter of the house of De Aguilera, and yet tremble with cowardly fear?" The spirit of Inez was too much broken for the insolent taunt to raise even a flush on her cheek.

They were gone. Campeador had been led away by Chico, and Teresa had hobbled off with what energy hope and pride could lend towards the Plaza de Toros. Inez returned into the house to perform a homely duty which sorrow did not make her forget. There was no one but herself to prepare her grandmother's early cup of chocolate; Inez made it ready, and then carried it to the bedside of Donna Benita.

There were fewer signs of poverty in the old lady's apartment than perhaps in any other in the house. The draperies, though very ancient, had yet an effect picturesque and rich. The coverlet over the bed was delicately white, and had been embroidered with small bunches of flowers in coloured silks by Inez. There was fine old lace on the cap which covered Donna Benita's scanty gray hairs; very thin and aged was the face which appeared beneath it.

"Where's Alcala? where's my boy?" murmured the widowed lady. The cloud on her intellect did not prevent Donna Benita from loving her grandson, or missing his presence, as a child might do that of an accustomed companion. "He was not here yesterday, was he? tell him to come to me quickly."

Inez silently kissed the thin wasted hand extended towards her. She stood with her back to the light as she first beat up the pillows and then proffered the cup, that the old lady might not see the traces of tears on her face. When Donna Benita, in a fretful tone, repeated her question, Inez tried to speak cheerfully, as she replied that Alcala had been specially engaged. Inez had to say the words thrice over before the aged lady could take in their meaning.

"And where's Teresa? why does she leave me?" asked the invalid, in feeble complaining accents.

"Teresa has gone to the Plaza de Toros," replied poor Inez with an effort.

"Ah! I used to go there with my Pedro – long, long ago," murmured Donna Benita. The feeble mind was trying to recall images once traced on the memory, but gradually fading away into one dull blank of oblivion. Even that slight mental effort wearied the aged lady, and having finished her chocolate, she soon fell into that dozing state in which she now passed by far the greater part of her time.

As soon as Inez saw that her grandmother slept, she glided away to the patio, and from thence through the vestibule to the archway, to watch for the coming of her brother. Could he resist her entreaties? could he refuse her the one poor boon which she had asked, the sad luxury of bidding him – perhaps a last – farewell?

While she was gloomily gazing forth into the now silent street, a sudden thought occurred to the mind of the sister. Inez would make one effort more to move the resolution of Aguilera, or to bribe her patron saint to protect him. The maiden hastened back into the patio without giving herself time for reflection. There, in a recess between two columns, Inez had left the writing materials which she had used when penning the note intrusted to Chico. She sank down on her knees at the place, and resting her blotting-book on the base of one of the columns, hastily, and with trembling fingers, wrote the following letter: —

"I have vowed a solemn vow to Santa Anna. If you, brother of my heart, venture to-day into the arena, and the blessed saint bear you unharmed out of the terrible encounter, I will take the veil, and devote myself to her service for the rest of my life in the nunnery of Cordova. Judge what you risk, Alcala, before you ride into the Plaza de Toros. If, regardless of my prayers and my tears, you keep your fatal appointment, you lose either your sister or your life. You may return unharmed and victorious, but it will be but to see your only sister offer herself up as a thank-offering for your preservation. If you would miss your Inez, if you have ever loved her, break your dreadful engagement. I know too well what it will cost you to do so, but anything is better than the misery – the ruin which is before us all if you keep it!"

With this missive in her hand Inez returned to the archway. If Alcala were coming at all before going to the circus, by this time he would surely have come. The poor girl glanced up and down the street; there was not a single person to be seen, save a muleteer who chanced to be passing, and who turned in some surprise to see a señora standing alone at the entrance of a mansion. Teresa and Chico both being absent, Inez had no messenger to send with her letter, unless she employed the stranger whom chance had brought into her way. The lady beckoned to the muleteer to approach her, drew off her rosary – the only ornament which she wore – for money she had none, and gave the coral beads, with the letter, into the hand of the man.

"For the love of mercy," she cried, "hasten with this letter to Don Alcala de Aguilera, at the Posada de Quesada. Oh, delay not; go as for your life!"

"I know the illustrious caballero, señora," said the muleteer, with an air of respectful pity. "The lady shall have no cause to complain of my slackness; ere an hour be passed I will bring a reply."

Was it a satisfaction or a terror to Inez when that letter was despatched? Perhaps it was both. Various feelings struggled in her breast, and it would have been difficult, even to herself, to have decided which was uppermost there. Inez, though pious, according to her superstitious views of religion, had no inclination whatever for the prison life of a convent. It was only her intense, unselfish love for her brother which induced her to threaten him and herself with a separation which would be, she felt, to her a living death. Inez had, from infancy, clung with the fondest affection to Alcala, her only brother. He had been to her companion, tutor, friend; and since the death of their last surviving parent, had almost taken towards the orphan girl the place of a father. With Alcala, Inez had shared poverty, and had scarcely felt its burden. What luxury that wealth might have procured would have been to Inez like that of sitting beside or at the feet of Alcala, in the cool of the evening, enjoying the music of his guitar, or blending her voice with his own? Often too had Alcala read aloud to his sister, while her fingers plied the needle. Inez had specially loved to work for her brother, that so poverty should not oblige him to dress in a way unbefitting his birth. The library of the Aguileras was but a small one; it consisted of a few books which had belonged to their wealthy grandfather, – it need scarcely be said that a Bible was not amongst them; but from reading, and listening to reading, the mind of Inez had received more cultivation than is usually found amongst women in Andalusia, though in England her education would have been considered very incomplete. It had been no small advantage to Inez that she had been almost entirely secluded from the frivolous society of Seville. The pride of poverty had had much to do with the maiden's seclusion; for Alcala had been unwilling that his sister should accept hospitality which he had not the means of returning. Inez had never complained of want of amusement; she had scarcely even regretted the quietness in which she was passing the spring-time of youth, her hours divided between attendance on her grandmother and other duties, and the sweet employment of making her brother happy. Inez had her little garden in the patio to tend, and the maiden delighted in flowers. It seemed to her now, as she stood in that court, leaning against a pillar, with her eyes gloomily fixed on the broken fountain, that the past had been a bright dream, which was passing from her for ever. Unless Alcala should yield to her entreaties (and then his life would be clouded over by a sense of disgrace), there seemed to Inez to be no alternative between weeping over a sepulchre or in a convent cell. In either case Alcala, the joy, the sunshine of her life, would be lost to his only sister.

Slowly, very slowly to Inez passed the minutes. Alcala had not come, and his absence was in itself a reply. But before the hour was over, Inez, who had gone back to her watch at the entrance, saw the muleteer returning. The young lady could not refrain from running forth into the street to meet the messenger, who might be the bearer of a letter. The man held out to the eager girl a fragment of paper, crumpled and dusty, which had evidently been torn from a book. A few scarcely legible words were written in pencil on the margin of the page, – "It is too late! Forgive, and pray for Alcala!"

CHAPTER VII.

DRIVEN TO THE SLAUGHTER

During the reign of Queen Isabella there was no church in Seville in which Protestants could assemble for worship.11 Deprived thus of outward means of grace, Lucius had formed a habit of walking on Sundays as far as he could into the country, and there, under the shade of some cork-tree, or clump of stone-pines, reading his Spanish Testament, and, in perfect solitude, lifting up his heart in prayer and in praise. On this Sunday he started on his walk rather more early than usual, glad to leave behind him the jarring sounds of the city. Already, however, Seville was all astir. Groups of people were passing to the different churches, but these groups consisted almost entirely of priests or women; by far the larger portion of the male population of Seville were drawn towards a centre of stronger attraction, – that centre was, as Lucius well knew, the Plaza de Toros. Thither, in an hour or two, gay carriages would be bearing their smiling occupants to gaze on scenes at which the bravest Briton might shudder. Already little streams of people were flowing forth from winding street and narrow lane, clad in holiday attire, eager to secure good places. Many a ragged beggar, many a barefooted urchin, who could not hope to be admitted into El Coliseo (as the Spaniards proudly name their circus), went to swell the crowd round the entrance. They would at least enjoy a sight of the gay procession of picadors, matadors, and chulos; they would be able to join in the shout when a slaughtered bull should be dragged out by a team of gaudily caparisoned mules.

At almost every street corner Lucius saw flaming placards from which glared on his view the name of his hapless friend. When he reached the bridge which spans the Guadalquivir, Lucius found the river dotted with boats bringing gaily-dressed sight-seers from villages and hamlets situated near its banks. Well pleased was the Englishman to turn his back upon the city, and pursue his walk along the wild Dehesa, as that tract of broken country is called which intervenes between the towns of Seville and Xeres. The mind of Lucius on this Sabbath-day was not attuned to enjoy the beauties of nature. He noticed not the glades carpeted with yellow lotus, or fragrant with the alhuçena, the purple lavender of Andalusia. Unobserved by him, brilliant butterflies fluttered over the blossoms of the gum-cistus, or lizards of green and gold basked in the glowing sunshine. The spirit of Lucius was not only oppressed by anxiety, but saddened by self-reproach.

"Had Aguilera known the Word of Truth," was the young man's reflection, "he might have learned from its pages that his life is not his own, to be hazarded like the stake of a gambler on the cast of the dice! He might have learned that a nobler object is offered for the aspirations of the soul than the plaudits of a Seville mob, or even the favour of a woman! I have feared to offend the prejudices and lose the friendship of Aguilera, – and all opportunity of doing him good may now be passed away. Buried talent – buried talent – taken from me for ever!"

Lucius had not proceeded far on his way, when he was roused from his bitter reflections by the loud voice of some one in front of him warning him to stand aside. Raising his eyes, which had been fixed on the ground, the Englishman observed a cloud of dust before him, and heard the trampling of hoofs. The road in this place had been a cutting through a hill, and was somewhat narrow in breadth; high rough banks rose on either side. Advancing along this road were now seen two Spaniards on horse-back, armed with long spears. Behind them came a troop of Andalusian bulls, driven by men on foot, who were clad in sheep-skin, and armed with slings. Warned as he had been to get out of the way, Lucius took a few steps up the right bank of the cutting, less to place himself beyond reach of possible danger, than to obtain a better view of the troop. Formidable animals appeared the bulls, with their thick, powerful necks and large horns, as they moved onwards towards the city, snorting and pawing the ground in the pride of their mighty strength. As they passed the spot where Lucius stood, the largest of the herd raised his dilated nostrils in the air, and gave a bellow of defiance, which from that deep chest sounded terrible as the roar of an angry lion.

The savage beasts passed on, but one of their drivers lingered for a few minutes behind them, in order to repair his sandal, of which one of the fastenings had given way on the road. Lucius descended from his higher position, and joined the herdsman, who had seated himself on a small projecting knoll, to effect his work with more ease. Lucius courteously wished the man good-morning, and the roughly-clad peasant returned the stranger's greeting with Spanish politeness.

"Are these bulls bound for the circus?" inquired the Englishman with interest.

The driver nodded his head. "Ay, not one of them will be alive this evening," observed the peasant. "The poor brutes would not go on so proudly towards Seville if they knew what is before them."

"Danger awaits others besides them," muttered Lucius Lepine.

"Ay, señor," observed the herdsman, misunderstanding the drift of the words; "other folk may go as blindfold as these bulls to their death, strong and gay in the morning, dragged in the dust before night. There's my own brother, for instance, he who lives in our village under the sierra yonder. Poor Carlos was dancing the fandango one day at a bridal, the merriest of the company there; on his way home he but slipped his foot on a steep, rocky path, and down falls the strong, active man, to be picked up with a broken back, and carried to our cottage to lie, as he has done for months, groaning with pain, and helpless as a child."

It occurred to Lucius that here might be an opportunity given to him of introducing into an abode of suffering the comfort of God's holy Word. "Can your brother read?" he inquired.

"Read! – ay, almost as well as the priest. Carlos always took to the learning, whilst most of our folk know no more of letters than one of the beasts that they drive." The man rose from his seat as he spoke, for he had finished repairing his sandal with a morsel of string.

"Will you give your brother this from me?" said the Englishman, taking from his breast-pocket the Spanish Testament, and offering it to the hind with an effort to overcome the shyness which had hitherto prevented his attempting to spread gospel-knowledge in Spain.

The man took the little volume with a blank stare of surprise at the stranger who had made so extraordinary a present. The peasant then opened and glanced at the contents of the book, and the expression on his face changed to that of fanatical fierceness.

"Bad book – heretical —muera a los Protestantes!" (death to the Protestants!) exclaimed the peasant, tearing out several pages from the sacred volume, and then flinging it back at the face of the giver. The fanatic would probably have added insults and imprecations, had not the necessity of making up for lost time, by rejoining the herd with all speed, obliged the driver to run on quickly in the direction of Seville.

Lucius with a sigh – for failure in an attempt to do good is always painful – picked up first the Testament, and then the scattered leaves, – all save one which escaped his notice, for a light wind had whirled it away.

CHAPTER VIII.

WITHOUT AND WITHIN

Not long after Lucius had quitted that spot, there came to it a single horseman, slowly riding towards the city of Seville. The cavalier was richly attired in green and silver; a broad scarlet scarf was wound round his waist, and its fringed end hung gracefully over his shoulder. His feet, cased in high boots, rested on stirrups of peculiar shape, designed from their size and strength to act as a protection to the rider. A Spanish sombrero shaded the cavalier's brow, and his hand grasped a sharp spear. The horseman was Alcala de Aguilera, in full fico as a picador, bound for the Plaza de Toros.

But, save in costume, the young Spaniard had nothing in common with the bull-fighter by profession; Alcala's face and form were both in strong contrast to those of the low-bred favourite of the Coliseo. The form was tall and slight, and conveyed no impression of possessing great physical strength. The pale intellectual countenance, with its delicately-formed features, suggested the idea of a student or poet, rather than that of a bold picador as dead to fear as to mercy. The expression on those features was that of intense melancholy, and formed but too faithful an index to the feelings of the heart which beat beneath the folds of that brilliant scarf.

Alcala was sensible that he had committed an act of the greatest folly. He had ventured all – his sister's peace of mind, his family's comfort, his own life – for a bubble that was not worth the grasping, even were it within his reach. Alcala was not one to care for the applause of a mob; nay, his proud, reserved nature shrank sensitively from the idea of appearing to court it. The greatest success in the common circus would be rather a disgrace than an honour to an Aguilera; he could not raise but degrade himself by competing for popular favour with professional picadors.

Nor had Alcala the incitement of passion to impel him onwards in his perilous career. His admiration of the governor's daughter had been but a passing fancy, a homage paid to mere beauty; it had no strong hold on his soul. The discovery of Antonia's heartlessness and selfish pride had changed that admiration into something almost resembling contempt. Alcala contrasted Antonia with Inez, the vain selfish beauty with the loving, self-forgetting woman, and felt much as did the knight of old who scornfully flung at the feet of his lady the glove which she had bidden him bring from the arena in which wild beasts were contending.