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CHAPTER XIX.
WANDERING ALONE

My mother's friend then deserts me, all earthly help fails me," thought Inez, as she turned away from the house of Donna Maria de Rivas. "And yet I am not forsaken." Inez glanced upwards where the deep blue sky of Andalusia spread its sapphire dome above the white glaring buildings around her. Inez marvelled at her own calmness under circumstances so trying. She had been wandering alone through the streets of Seville, protected from the stare of passers-by only by the thick folds of the veil which the maiden drew closely around both form and face. Inez was painfully aware that she was committing a breach of Spanish etiquette, amounting almost to impropriety. In her country it is deemed unseemly, even for a girl of the humble classes, to walk abroad unaccompanied by a matron; the young sister of De Aguilera knew, therefore, that she was but too likely to meet with insult; and her modest, sensitive nature rendered such an ordeal to her peculiarly distressing. Inez could more boldly have made her way through a thicket, where the wolf might lurk or the adder coil, than down those bright, busy streets. But not even the rude Spanish gamins had uttered a jest as the lady glided timidly along; the beggars, wrapped in their mantles of rags, had not held out their hats to solicit alms. Idle cigaretto-smoking loungers had courteously moved aside to let the maiden go by. It almost appeared to Inez as if she were guarded by invisible spirits, borne up by a strength not her own.

The maiden was indeed supported by comfort derived from a heavenly source. Inez, before starting on her walk, had opened the Book which was so dear to her brother, and which had so happily escaped the search of the police. The first words which she saw in it were enough for Inez; she closed the volume, kissed and replaced it in her bosom, repeating over and over to herself the promise, "I will never leave nor forsake thee." Inez uttered no prayer to Virgin or to saint: had not Alcala told her that all such prayers were useless? Alcala trusted in God alone, and so should his sister trust. Inez went forth, feeding, as it were, on the strong, sustaining nourishment afforded to her soul by a few sweet words from the Holy Scriptures. She was not so wretched, not nearly so wretched, as she had been when Alcala had ridden to the Plaza de Toros. Though Inez had, as yet, only a glimmer of gospel light, she had a comforting persuasion that Alcala was now suffering in a cause in which it was an honour to suffer: no selfish pride, no mere spirit of romance, had brought him to his present condition of peril. His Lord would be with Alcala, even in his prison, as with holy martyrs of old. Desolate as she was, as regarded human help, well might Inez look up to heaven and say, "I am not forsaken."

But where was the maiden now to turn her steps? Must she return to her home without making any further effort to find some protector for Aguilera? An almost unconscious prayer for guidance burst from the pallid lips of Inez. Then came the suggestion to her mind, "Wherefore should I not seek help from Antonia, the governor's daughter? Her father is all-powerful in Seville, and she – oh! if she be not harder than this pavement that I tread on, surely Antonia must interest herself in the fate of Alcala!"

If there were one being in the world who was an object of aversion to the gentle Inez, that being was the wealthy beauty of Seville, whose pride had so nearly cost the life of Aguilera. It had been a subject of no small thankfulness to Inez, that her brother, since receiving his wound, had never once mentioned Antonia's name. There was no misfortune more dreaded by Inez than that of having to embrace as a sister the heartless Antonia. But when Alcala lay ill of his wound, inquiries had been made regarding his state by a messenger wearing the governor's livery. Inez could scarcely believe it possible that Antonia could reflect without grief and remorse on the pain which she had caused to one whom, in the judgment of his young sister, no one could know and not love.

Inez had herself but slight personal acquaintance with Donna Antonia; they had met at the house of Donna Maria, and had there exchanged a few words. This slight acquaintance had by no means inclined Inez to wish for closer intimacy with the governor's daughter. Don Lopez de Rivadeo was himself a proud insolent upstart, who owed his place to his relationship to Claret, the confessor of Queen Isabella. No man in Seville was more unpopular than Don Lopez. The governor only used his power to fill his coffers. His was the hand to close on the bribe; he sold offices to the highest bidder; he oppressed the poor, he fleeced the rich; he was ready at all times, and in all ways, to do the bidding of one of the most unscrupulous governments that had ever afflicted even unhappy Spain. It was not willingly that Inez de Aguilera would ever have sought either mercy or justice from such a man as Lopez de Rivadeo; she had not the power, even had she the will, to work on his cupidity; she could only hope to influence him through the medium of Donna Antonia. The governor's only child was the pride of her father's heart, as well as the heiress of all his fortune; and gossip had whispered that the easiest way to climb to the great man's favour was by a chain of gold or rope of pearl round the neck of his beautiful daughter.

On, therefore, towards the governor's house went Inez, treading with weary feet over rough stones, sun-baked pavements, across glaring plazas. Thankful was the poor wanderer when trees bordering some paseo (promenade) afforded her temporary shade. Full as was the maiden's mind of anxiety and sorrow, nature at last would make its wants felt. Inez had had no refreshment that day since partaking of an early and slender breakfast, and it was now many hours past noon. Inez had had much to exhaust a frame not naturally strong, and had never before walked so far in the heat of the day. The poor girl's mouth was parched and dry with feverish thirst; weariness oppressed her; she felt that she could scarcely go further unless she slaked that thirst.

Happily, Seville offers her sparkling fountains to weary wayfarers like Inez. The maiden, however, shrank from approaching any of the larger fountains which ornamented the plazas, fearful of being noticed, perhaps recognized, by some of the gay idlers who congregated around them. There was a fountain in a more quiet corner of a street, where a tiny rill of water trickled from the mouth of a stone dolphin into a basin below. Towards this place Inez now moved her languid feet.

A man in a high-coned Andalusian hat, and wearing the long cloak which Spaniards think a needful article of dress even in the warmth of September, was filling for himself a little tin vessel attached to the fountain. Very near him squatted on the ground a vendor of fruit, the large basket before him piled with tempting oranges, citrons, melons, and figs, and bunches of grapes from Malaga vines. The fruit-seller was conversing with a third person – a peasant – who was making a simple meal off roasted chestnuts, while he chatted with his companion. Inez stood a few paces distant from the group, waiting till the man in the high hat should have quenched his thirst, that she might satisfy her own. The maiden thus could not avoid hearing some of the conversation passing between the three.

"But what was the caballero's crime, eh?" were the first words, spoken by the peasant, which arrested the attention of Inez.

"White Judaism, folk say," was the reply uttered by the vendor of fruit.

"White Judaism! what may that be?"

The question was apparently more easily asked than answered, for it was not till after sundry shrugs, expressive of perplexity, that the fruit-seller replied: "As far as I can make out, it's plotting to burn all the churches, knock down the convents, and hang all the friars."

"You've not hit the right mark, my friend," said the man in the high-peaked hat who was filling the tin. "I should know all about the matter, for I've travelled as courier to English caballeros; and White Judaism is their religion, when they've any at all. It's saying that the holy apostles were Jews, every one of the twelve, and the blessed Virgin herself only a Jewess!"

The peasant uttered an exclamation of surprise, the fruit-man crossed himself devoutly. "Misericordia!" he cried; "I never knew that White Judaism was half so bad as that comes to."

"You thought it mere burning and hanging," laughed he in the Andalusian hat: there was irony in his laughter.

"One don't see many in this Catholic land as hold such notions," observed the peasant.

"You don't see the seeds in yon melon; but they are there for all that," was the significant rejoinder.

"Ay, it only needs the sharp knife to cut open the melon, and there are the seeds sure enough," said the peasant.

"The governor is ready enough with the knife, and he whets it sharp enough," gloomily observed the vendor of fruit. "To think of his ordering off to prison a caballero like Don Alcala de Aguilera!"

"Was it not he who was nearly killed by the bull?" inquired the man who had just emptied the tin in Spanish fashion – not touching the vessel with his lips, but throwing back his head, and pouring the contents into his mouth. The place at the fountain was now left free for Inez, but she had forgotten her thirst.

"Ay, ay; it's pity for him, I take it, that the bull did not kill him outright," said the fruit-man.

"Why, what will they do with him, if he is found guilty of Judaism, black or white?" asked the peasant.

The man who had just left the fountain took on himself to answer the question, while he made his bargain with the vendor of fruit.

"I'll tell you, friend, what they'll do. (What do you ask now for those figs?) The judge will find the caballero guilty, of course – for the folk at the court want such as he out of the way; then he'll be shipped off to Cuba to work on the plantations. (You may give me a bunch of those grapes.) At Cuba they chain each Spaniard to a woolly-headed nigger, two and two; (that's refreshing in weather like this!) and if the poor convict lag in his work, down comes the whip of the driver, who lays it smartly on his bare back, till perhaps the poor wretch drops down dead where he stands!"

The Andalusian went on, enjoying his luscious fruit, quite unconscious of the keen pang which his idle words had inflicted on a youthful and tender heart.

CHAPTER XX.
AN IDOL ON ITS PEDESTAL

In the spacious garden attached to the governor's house were gathered together some of the gayest and most fashionable of those who moved in the higher circles of Seville. A party had been invited to celebrate with dance, song, and feasting, the birthday of the governor's only daughter. The garden was a little paradise, in which nature and art seemed to outvie each other in offering attractions to eye, ear, and taste. Lopez, who, with his daughter, had visited the Great Exhibition in Paris, had brought back ideas of French magnificence to add new adornments to a place which, for beauty and elegance, had before been unrivalled in Seville. Exotics from various countries blended with the splendid plants indigenous to Andalusia, making the parterres one flush of brilliant hues. Italian statues adorned gilded fountains that threw up scented waters to sparkle in the sun. Here, under the shade of orange-trees, ladies listened to the strains of some manly voice, accompanied by the tinkling guitar. There the fandango was danced on the velvet turf, while clattering castanets kept time. Servants in gorgeous liveries carried about ices shaped into the forms of fruits, or costly luxuries brought from the most distant parts of the world. Others followed with wines such as were to be found in no cellars in Seville save those of the wealthy governor, who was as lavish in expending his money as he was unscrupulous in acquiring it.

The centre of the brilliant circle, the observed of all observers, the magnet which drew to itself the admiration of every cavalier present – Donna Antonia stood like the queen of beauty, surrounded by satellites that only shone in the light of her smile. Antonia concentrated in herself the charms for which the women of Andalusia are famed. Hers were the lustrous almond-shaped eyes, the luxuriant hair, the exquisite form whose every movement is the perfection of grace. Perhaps to the eye of an artist Antonia would have appeared more to advantage in the picturesque long white robe and lace veil of the Spanish costume, than in the dress of the newest Parisian fashion with which she had chosen to replace them. But let her wear what she might, Antonia in any garb must have been acknowledged to be the most beautiful woman in Seville; and no one was more aware of the fact than herself. No expense had been spared in showing off her beauty; the arms and neck of the governor's daughter were loaded with splendid jewels, and a circlet of brilliants sparkled round her brow.

It was to be expected that such a subject of interest as the arrest of Don Alcala de Aguilera should afford a topic for gossip amongst members of fashionable circles, as well as amongst the poorer inhabitants of Seville. Even the cavalier's late adventure in the bull-ring had scarcely been a more exciting, and therefore delightful, theme. There was not a group in the gay garden of Lopez de Rivadeo where Alcala's imprisonment did not form a thread in the web of light converse, a thread variously coloured, according to the temper of the speakers, by disapproval, contempt, or pity. The appearance, at least, of the noble hidalgo was familiar to all the guests of Antonia, and every one, more or less, took some interest in his fate.

"I always declared my conviction that De Aguilera would sink lower and lower after he degraded himself by stooping to serve an English mechanic," observed a stiff-backed don, who had himself not been above begging a place in the customs and enforcing his plea by a bribe.

"I'd have blown out my brains before I'd have done that!" exclaimed a young Spanish officer, twirling the end of his slender mustache.

"De Aguilera took almost as short a method of cutting the life-knot when he rode spear in hand into the Plaza de Toros," observed a stately duenna.

"I admired his daring," lisped her pretty young charge. "One likes to see the knightly spirit flash forth; and if Don Alcala had been slain in the arena, one could only have said that it was a pity that so brave and handsome a caballero should come to such an untimely end. But only think of a Spanish hidalgo being carried off to a common prison on such a charge as might be preferred against some book-hawking pedlar!"

"Or a wretched heretic, whom Torquemada – rest his soul! – would have sent to the stake," joined in her stern-faced duenna.

"Heresy must be put down," observed the don who had first spoken, with a frown which might have beseemed the Grand Inquisitor himself. This Spanish gentleman, who so strongly condemned what he termed heresy, had himself no faith in any religion whatever.

"One pities Don Alcala's sister," said the younger lady. "I rather liked her looks, though she never carried herself with the dignity of an Aguilera; and as for her dress, she, for one, seemed to think that Spanish ladies were born in the frightful mantilla, veil, and high comb worn by their mothers, and must carry them, as birds do their feathers, to the end of their lives!" It need scarcely be mentioned that the fair speaker, like Antonia, had adopted a fashionable Parisian costume, and wore her hair in the Impératrice style.

A cavalier, with obsequious reverence, such as he might have shown to Queen Isabella herself, was presenting to Donna Antonia the fan which she had dropped, when one of her servants approached her, and in a low tone informed his mistress that a lady who called herself Donna Inez de Aguilera asked a few minutes of private audience with the señorita.

"Donna Inez de Aguilera!" exclaimed Antonia, in a tone that expressed curiosity rather than pity; "is she waiting in her carriage without?"

"The señorita is on foot, and unattended," said the lackey, hardly suppressing a smile.

Antonia laughed – such a light, gay laugh – and the sycophants around her echoed the tones of her mirth. "Donna Inez doubtless comes to entreat my intercession for the caballero her brother," said the governor's daughter. "Would it not be like a scene out of some French romance, if we were to see this demoiselle-errante humbling herself to play the supplicant here!" And forgetting, or rather disregarding Inez's request that the audience might be private, Antonia bade her servant introduce the señorita into the crowded garden.

Purposely or not, Antonia moved a few steps to a place where a slight elevation of the ground gave her a raised position, such as might have been afforded by a dais, and her flatterers formed behind her a semicircle which might have graced the court of a queen. There was a smile of conscious triumph on the lips of the governor's daughter. The house of Aguilera was older by three centuries than that of Rivadeo, and to see a descendant of one of the conquerors of the Moors reduced to implore a boon in the presence of so many spectators was a gratification to the mean ungenerous pride of Antonia.

There mingled also with that pride a spirit of petty revenge. Inez had once been invited to a party at the governor's house, and the invitation had not been accepted. There had been various reasons for the refusal of Inez to appear in the gay assembly, – one of the most potent amongst them being the lack of a suitable dress, – but Antonia imagined but one. The heiress of De Rivadeo thought herself slighted by a proud descendant of heroes, and deeply resented the slight.

"Inez de Aguilera is the only woman in Seville who would not have thought herself honoured by my invitation," Antonia had observed to one of her numerous sycophants; and the haughty girl had added the bitter remark, "She may live to repent her folly." Antonia now deemed that the time for such repentance had come.

Inez, whose natural timidity had been increased by habits of seclusion, felt as if she would fain have sunk into the earth, when, on being conducted into the garden, she saw what an ordeal was before her. After all that she had suffered during that terrible day, might she not have been spared the mental torment of facing alone such a crowd of spectators! But still the weak and weary one felt that mysterious sustaining power which led her gently on, like the support of a father's arm. Inez lifted up her heart in that short ejaculatory prayer which has been beautifully described as the golden link between earth and heaven. Then Inez remembered her brother, and self was almost forgotten. With the meek dignity of sorrow the lady followed the servant, and feelings of compassion for her were awakened even in worldly hearts. An elderly Castilian cavalier came forward, and with the profoundest respect offered his escort to the desolate girl. Antonia was annoyed on witnessing this little act of courtesy, and more especially so as the Castilian's rank made him one of the stars of her party.

"We are much flattered by the appearance at our festival of Donna Inez de Aguilera," said Antonia, with ironical politeness, as Inez approached the raised place where the governor's daughter stood to receive her. "To what happy chance may we owe this somewhat unexpected gratification?"

All the courtly throng kept silence so profound that Inez's low answer was heard distinctly.

"I come, Donna Antonia, to entreat you to procure some – some alleviation for the trials of my brother. He has been accused by his own false servant, a servant who has lately robbed him, and who, by this cruel means, hopes to shield himself from the pursuit of his master."

"And what would you have me do in this matter?" interrupted Antonia. "Would you expect me to hunt out the robber, who was doubtless tempted by the hoards of wealth possessed, as we all know well, by the family of De Aguilera? I am neither corregidor nor alguazil, and must beg to make over the quest to the officers of the law."

Inez resumed her pleading as if the insolent taunt were unnoticed by her.

"My brother Don Alcala is still very weak from the effects of a wound received in the Plaza de Toros," – the cavalier's sister laid an emphatic stress on the name of the place. "This day my brother was carried off to a prison; the hardships and sufferings to which he will there be exposed may cost him his life. I only ask for your intercession that Don Alcala may be suffered to return to his house, and remain, if need be, a prisoner there on parole, till the strictest search be made into his conduct. I am certain" – the sister unconsciously warmed as she spoke – "I am certain that such search will only prove that Don Alcala has acted nobly."

"Donna Inez comes to plead rather like one demanding a due than suing for a favour," said the sarcastic Antonia. "An Aguilera must needs have a claim to our utmost exertions; even to hint that our intercession would be acceptable must seem unnecessary to the pride of his sister."

"Pride!" echoed the wondering Inez, to whom her own position appeared to exclude such an idea: "pride!" she repeated passionately, "when I would go on my knees to obtain the liberty of Alcala!"

"Scarcely, I suspect, even to save his life," said the governor's daughter.

As if by a sudden impulse Inez sank on her knees; if that humiliation would win a protectress for Alcala, even to that would she stoop. Antonia glanced with a proud smile first down at Inez, then round at her guests. This was a crowning triumph indeed!

"Rise, Donna Inez de Aguilera," said the governor's daughter after a pause; "I am sorry that I cannot, even in your behalf, break the vow which I have made, under no circumstances whatever to interfere with my father's administration of justice."

Some of the spectators could hardly suppress the exclamation of "Shame!" as Inez rose from her knees, deadly pale, but perfectly calm. The screen had, as it were, been withdrawn from before the idol they had worshipped, and they had had a glimpse of the moral hideousness which may lie under the veil of outward beauty.

"May you, Donna Antonia, never know what it is to ask for mercy in vain!" murmured Inez; and without uttering another word she turned to depart. Many of those present would willingly have shown the poor maiden sympathy and done her service, but dared not come forward to do so under the eyes of their tyrant. The Castilian alone, with lofty courtesy, accompanied the young lady to the gate, and beyond it. His escort was no small comfort to Inez; she had not to pass alone through the gazing throng of servants who were without the garden enclosure awaiting the departure of the guests of the governor's daughter.

"May I have the honour of summoning the carriage of the Donna Inez de Aguilera?" asked her courteous protector, bowing low as he spoke.

"No, señor; I will return as I came," murmured Inez faintly; "and thanks – thanks!" She could not add more, but turned from her pitying conductor and went on her lonely way.

But Inez could not walk far. The excitement of hope sustained her no longer, no strength for further effort remained. Weights of lead seemed to cling to the poor girl's feet, there was a rushing sound in her ears as if the ocean were near. Mist gathered before the eyes of Inez, dimming the brilliant sunshine which yet flooded the city. The Spanish maiden had painful difficulty in breathing, and to get air intuitively threw back her veil. As she did so the voice of one who was about to pass her in the street uttered her name in a tone of surprise. The fainting girl was only able to recognize the speaker ere her powers completely gave way, and she would have fallen to the ground in a swoon but for the supporting arms of Lucius Lepine.