XXIX.
After Many Days.
Fray Fernando had not been unmoved by his interview with Walter Grey. The young Englishman had avowed to him, frankly and fearlessly, that he had been taught to confess his sins to God, and to Him alone. And yet, he added, to such a man as Fray Fernando, who had shown him much kindness, and who for years, and he doubted not for wisdom also, might be truly called his father, he would not refuse, nay, he should be glad to make a candid confession of his past misdeeds, which were many. Fray Fernando thought this speech evinced some hopeful dispositions, but at the same time great ignorance, if not wilful misunderstanding, of the true nature of confession. He therefore essayed the necessary explanations; and these in turn gave rise to numerous questions from Walter, most respectfully and even deferentially worded, yet very difficult to answer satisfactorily. Fray Fernando found it a hard task to prove the necessity of confession and the virtue of penance. For Walter had been taught controversy almost from his cradle, and did no discredit to the teaching.
More than once Fray Fernando had well-nigh lost patience with him; but his utter helplessness, and the terrible penalties that hung suspended over his head, moved the compassion of the friar, and made him forbearing. And at last he succeeded in winning from the lips of the Englishman the admission, that although his scruples as to some parts of the doctrine and discipline of the Church were as yet unremoved, he was desirous of receiving instruction upon these subjects. Professing himself contented with this for the present, he agreed to postpone the ceremony of confession to a future occasion; and in the meantime to allow Walter to tell his story, not as penitent to priest, but as man to man.
The simple narrative, frankly and naturally told, was not without its effect upon the monk. Of the horrors of the inquisitorial dungeon Walter said little, almost nothing—and yet Fray Fernando shuddered. Good Catholic as he had lived up to this hour, and thoroughly free, in thought and word, from the stain of heresy, he still regarded the prisons of the Holy Office with terror, not quite unmixed with a strange fascination. Perhaps this was because his own faith was so far above suspicion, that he could freely afford to pity the victims of heresy. Or perhaps it was because his heart, or that of some one he loved, had once bled beneath the relentless sword of St. Dominic.
But whatever he felt on the subject, he said nothing. He merely observed, that a mark of divine grace had already been bestowed upon “Señor Valter” (as he called Walter), in that he had been outwardly reconciled with the Church; and he doubted not that He who had begun the good work would complete it in due time. For his own part, he would use all his influence with the authorities to obtain for his young friend ample opportunity of receiving such instruction as might remove his scruples and promote his edification in the faith. And with these words he dismissed him, and summoned the matador.
For some minutes Fray Fernando sat in silence, pondering Walter’s case, and scarcely heeding the poor man who stood before him, patiently awaiting his pleasure. Looking up at last, he saw a tall, stooping, emaciated figure, a face nearly as brown as José’s, thin gray hair, and a long gray beard. “My friend,” he said compassionately, “I can see that yours have been lengthened sufferings. But Holy Church is a tender mother, who abandons not the most unfortunate or the most erring amongst her children. I trust her consolations are not unwelcome to you.”
The matador, who, since he entered the apartment, had scarcely averted his dark eyes for a moment from the face of the monk, made answer instantly: “They are most welcome, reverend father.” The faith upon which he lived was, in truth, the same as that of Walter Grey; but he had not enjoyed the same opportunities of instruction. Those gleams of light that had sufficed to illuminate this world and the next for him had come to him from the Lutheran Church of Seville; and up to the last, the members of that Church had been forced to continue in external communion with Rome; nor, it seems, had the consciences of the greater number amongst them reproached them for so doing. How could the poor galley-slave see farther than his teachers, or attempt the task of bringing the articles of his creed into logical consistency with each other. But if there was some confusion in his head, there was no contradiction in his heart. He knew that God had forgiven his sins for His Son’s sake; even though he did kneel down meekly before Fray Fernando, and submit himself obediently to all prescribed forms, taxing his memory to recall the most trivial words and deeds recorded there, in the hope of receiving an absolution of which he had no need.
But the substance of his confession caused Fray Fernando great surprise. He felt like one who has prepared himself to drink a bitter potion to the dregs, but finds the draught instead some rare old wine, fragrant with the sunshine and the dews of the summers of long ago. It was no pleasant task to hear the confessions usually made by the galley-slaves. But the soul of this poor man seemed sensitive to the touch of sin, as polished metal to the lightest sullying breath. He did not, like the others, regard his sins as so many debts, to be paid somehow or somewhere, lest disagreeable consequences should follow. He had learned to look upon his sin as something which interposed an unwelcome cloud between a reconciled Father and a loving child. Indeed, he spoke as one who knew a secret, which, to say the truth, was as yet unrevealed even to his earnest and conscientious father-confessor.
Fray Fernando listened with compassion and interest, not unmixed with a strange kind of reverence. The very dialect in which the matador spoke deepened the impression of his words. It was the soft liquid “Andaluz,” which he himself, in his early days, had been accustomed to hear spoken in his native city of Seville.
Willingly, and with slight penance imposed, he bestowed his absolution and his blessing. And when the matador had risen from his knees, he said to him, “Stay a minute,—I would willingly know something more of you. I think you are not destitute of the grace of God, who giveth to all men as He will.”
The matador, be it observed, had not in his confession revealed his real name, or the crime for which he suffered. Such a revelation, though usual, was not obligatory; unless it happened to be the penitent’s first confession since the commission of the crime.
“God has been very good to me,” he answered quietly. “I am, moreover, grateful to you for your kindness, holy father.”
“I have done little for you; I would willingly do more, if I knew how. Something occurs to me at this moment. I have no doubt you are from the old country? Probably a native of Seville?”
The matador bowed.
Fray Fernando checked some remark that rose to his lips, ere he said, “My position here gives me many opportunities, did I care to use them, of holding communication with Spain. It may be you have friends or relatives yet living there to whom you would gladly send a letter. Can you write?”
“I could write once, your reverence; but my hands have held the oar too long to hold the pen now.”
“I will then, if you wish it, write at your dictation.”
“I thank you, reverend father,” the matador answered, slowly and rather doubtfully.
Fray Fernando rose to procure the necessary materials from the next room.
But the matador stayed him. “If you please, father,” he said with hesitation, “I do not think—I do not know”—and he slowly raised his worn right hand to his forehead, and held it there horizontally, lightly touching his brow with its fingers.
Something in the slight action struck Fray Fernando. One whom he knew long ago had been wont to use it. Exactly thus: the brow just touched, not pressed; the eyes—dark, thoughtful eyes—not covered, but looking out, as it were, a great way off. Of what was he dreaming? And why did the patio of his father’s house at Seville, with everything it contained, from his father’s portrait by Juan de las Roelas down to the least ornament, rise suddenly before his eyes?—But this must not go on. With an effort he dispelled the vision, and once more saw the matador standing before him. “Consider what you wish to do, my friend,” he said kindly.
“I have considered, reverend father,” the matador answered, removing his hand and looking earnestly at the monk, who felt every moment more tormented by thronging memories of the past;—until at length there came a flash of relieving thought—“Last night I must have dreamed some vivid dream of my early home. Doubtless it is that which haunts me now, though memory fails to recall it distinctly.”
Meanwhile, the matador was saying, “It seems to me that it is not well to write. All those I knew think me dead long ago. Perhaps they are dead themselves; for I have been in the galleys nigh upon twenty years.—No, not quite—sixteen years last December. I had my sentence at Seville, in the great auto-da-fé.”
“You are then a prisoner of the Holy Office?” Fray Fernando asked, with a vague unaccountable feeling that his dream was coming back to him, and that the scene in which he was acting was a part of it.
“Yes; I hope your reverence will not think the worse of me for that?”
“No; you have probably been drawn aside from the Faith by the subtleties of some designing heretic?”
“That was not exactly my case, father. My crime was not heresy, but daring resistance to the Holy Office.”
“How?” asked Fray Fernando, now thoroughly awake, and startled—nay, alarmed. What if one, concerned in that enterprise, were suddenly to appear and, even in this remote corner of the world, to recognize—
The matador spoke again: “We essayed a desperate deed. We—for to you I fear not to confess all—we dared to attack the Triana itself.”
The blood forsook Fray Fernando’s cheek and lips as he questioned,—“We! Who?”
The matador, embarrassed by the question, not only from the abrupt and startling way in which it was proposed, but from the difficulty of answering without naming names guarded by his loyal heart in sacred silence, replied after a pause,—“I was the leader—I myself.”
“You!” exclaimed the monk, fastening his eyes upon him in amazement. “You!—’Tis false.—’Tis not true!”
“Father, I am God’s free-man, though the king’s slave, and I speak the truth as in His presence,” said the matador, with gentle dignity.
Fray Fernando was no longer pale, he was ghastly, and his lips trembled as they faltered, “Your name?”
“At the service of your reverence—Melchior del Salto.”
As one possessed, Fray Fernando sprang from his seat, seized the poor man’s arm, and in tones not loud, yet fierce and wild, exclaimed, “Man, ’tis false! You—whoever you are—you are not Melchior del Salto—An evil spirit takes the form to mock me—He was burned to ashes at the stake.”
“On the faith and truth of a Christian man, Melchior del Salto stands before you. But—but—”
It was the matador’s turn to tremble now and falter. When he spoke again it was with low, imploring voice. “Father,” said he—“Señor—for Heaven’s sake take off your hand—sit down—let me look you in the face.”
He need not have so entreated. The friar’s strength was failing through intensity of emotion. He sank unconsciously into the seat. “I am losing my reason,” he murmured. “What did you say?—Who are you?”
“I am Melchior del Salto, reprieved at the last moment, because their reverences received information that it was another hand than his which struck down Tomas Varguez that fatal night. And you—you?—Nay, señor, not one word.—You are Señor Don Alfonso!”
“Melchior!—Brother risen from the dead!” exclaimed Fray Fernando; and in another moment two hearts that had long been sundered were beating against each other. Then they “lifted up their voices and wept.”
When words were possible, they were broken, faltering, inconsequent.
“Now I know why I loved you from the first,” Melchior del Salto murmured. “I used to listen for the sound of your voice, to watch for the very shadow of your cowl. But, ah, how altered,—señor, my brother!”
“Throughout these long years I believed my brother died for me—the death of fire.”
“And you, instead, lost all for that brother’s sake.”
“Oh no; the crime for which I suffered was my own. And you, my brother—you have suffered—how sorely! Sixteen years in the galleys!”
“God has not forsaken me. His goodness and mercy have followed me every step of the way. Till now—at last—He has given me this great crowning joy,—to see your face again!”
Thus they talked, and might have talked till midnight, had not the new bell, recently brought from Spain for the church of Callao, rung out its musical summons to prayer at the vesper hour.
Fray Fernando heard not the sound; but upon Melchior del Salto it had a magical effect. It transformed him instantly into the galley-slave and the matador. “Our hour is long past,” he said. “This must not be. The Englishman will share the blame that is due to me. Besides, the privilege another time may be withheld.”
The thought of sending back his newly-found brother to the cruel slavery in which he had pined so long, seemed absolutely horrible to Fray Fernando. Still, it was inevitable. They must part. Sorrowfully acknowledging the necessity, he accompanied the two galley-slaves to the San Cristofero, and excused them to the captain, taking upon himself the blame of their late return. “I will see you to-morrow—early,” he said, as he bade Melchior del Salto farewell.