CHAPTER IX
THOMAS BECOMES RICH
For many months we heard no more of de Garcia or of Isabella deSiguenza. Both had vanished leaving no sign, and we searched for them invain. As for me I fell back into my former way of life of assistant toFonseca, posing before the world as his nephew. But it came about thatfrom the night of my duel with the murderer, my master's health declinedsteadily through the action of a wasting disease of the liver whichbaffled all skill, so that within eight months of that time he layalmost bedridden and at the point of death. His mind indeed remainedquite clear, and on occasions he would even receive those who came toconsult him, reclining on a chair and wrapped in his embroidered robe.But the hand of death lay on him, and he knew that it was so. As theweeks went by he grew more and more attached to me, till at length, hadI been his son, he could not have treated me with a greater affection,while for my part I did what lay in my power to lessen his sufferings,for he would let no other physician near him.
At length when he had grown very feeble he expressed a desire to see anotary. The man he named was sent for and remained closeted with him foran hour or more, when he left for a while to return with several ofhis clerks, who accompanied him to my master's room, from which I wasexcluded. Presently they all went away, bearing some parchments withthem.
That evening Fonseca sent for me. I found him very weak, but cheerfuland full of talk.
'Come here, nephew,' he said, 'I have had a busy day. I have been busyall my life through, and it would not be well to grow idle at the last.Do you know what I have been doing this day?'
I shook my head.
'I will tell you. I have been making my will--there is something toleave; not so very much, but still something.'
'Do not talk of wills,' I said; 'I trust that you may live for manyyears.'
He laughed. 'You must think badly of my case, nephew, when you thinkthat I can be deceived thus. I am about to die as you know well, and Ido not fear death. My life has been prosperous but not happy, for it wasblighted in its spring--no matter how. The story is an old one and notworth telling; moreover, whichever way it had read, it had all been onenow in the hour of death. We must travel our journey each of us; whatdoes it matter if the road has been good or bad when we have reached thegoal? For my part religion neither comforts nor frightens me now at thelast. I will stand or fall upon the record of my life. I have done evilin it and I have done good; the evil I have done because nature andtemptation have been too strong for me at times, the good also becausemy heart prompted me to it. Well, it is finished, and after all deathcannot be so terrible, seeing that every human being is born to undergoit, together with all living things. Whatever else is false, I hold thisto be true, that God exists and is more merciful than those who preachHim would have us to believe.' And he ceased exhausted.
Often since then I have thought of his words, and I still think of themnow that my own hour is so near. As will be seen Fonseca was a fatalist,a belief which I do not altogether share, holding as I do that withincertain limits we are allowed to shape our own characters and destinies.But his last sayings I believe to be true. God is merciful, anddeath is not terrible either in its act or in its consequence.
Presently Fonseca spoke again. 'Why do you lead me to talk of suchthings? They weary me and I have little time. I was telling of my will.Nephew, listen. Except certain sums that I have given to be spent incharities--not in masses, mind you--I have left you all I possess.'
'You have left it to ME!' I said astonished.
'Yes, nephew, to you. Why not? I have no relations living and I havelearned to love you, I who thought that I could never care again for anyman or woman or child. I am grateful to you, who have proved to me thatmy heart is not dead, take what I give you as a mark of my gratitude.'
Now I began to stammer my thanks, but he stopped me. 'The sum that youwill inherit, nephew, amounts in all to about five thousand gold pesos,or perhaps twelve thousand of your English pounds, enough for a youngman to begin life on, even with a wife. Indeed there in England it maywell be held a great fortune, and I think that your betrothed's fatherwill make no more objection to you as a son-in-law. Also there is thishouse and all that it contains; the library and the silver are valuable,and you will do well to keep them. All is left to you with the fullestformality, so that no question can arise as to your right to take it;indeed, foreseeing my end, I have of late called in my moneys, and forthe most part the gold lies in strong boxes in the secret cupboard inthe wall yonder that you know of. It would have been more had I knownyou some years ago, for then, thinking that I grew too rich who waswithout an heir, I gave away as much as what remains in acts of mercyand in providing refuge for the homeless and the suffering. ThomasWingfield, for the most part this money has come to me as the fruitof human folly and human wretchedness, frailty and sin. Use it forthe purposes of wisdom and the advancing of right and liberty. May itprosper you, and remind you of me, your old master, the Spanish quack,till at last you pass it on to your children or the poor. And now oneword more. If your conscience will let you, abandon the pursuit of deGarcia. Take your fortune and go with it to England; wed that maid whomyou desire, and follow after happiness in whatever way seems best toyou. Who are you that you should meet out vengeance on this knave deGarcia? Let him be, and he will avenge himself upon himself. Otherwiseyou may undergo much toil and danger, and in the end lose love, andlife, and fortune at a blow.'
'But I have sworn to kill him,' I answered, 'and how can I break sosolemn an oath? How could I sit at home in peace beneath the burden ofsuch shame?'
'I do not know; it is not for me to judge. You must do as you wish, butin the doing of it, it may happen that you will fall into greater shamesthan this. You have fought the man and he has escaped you. Let him go ifyou are wise. Now bend down and kiss me, and bid me farewell. I do notdesire that you should see me die, and my death is near. I cannot tellif we shall meet again when in your turn you have lain as I lie now, orif we shape our course for different stars. If so, farewell for ever.'
Then I leant down and kissed him on the forehead, and as I did so Iwept, for not till this hour did I learn how truly I had come to lovehim, so truly that it seemed to me as though my father lay there dying.
'Weep not,' he said, 'for all our life is but a parting. Once I had ason like you, and ours was the bitterest of farewells. Now I go to seekfor him again who could not come back to me, so weep not because I die.Good-bye, Thomas Wingfield. May God prosper and protect you! Now go!'
So I went weeping, and that night, before the dawn, all was over withAndres de Fonseca. They told me that he was conscious to the end anddied murmuring the name of that son of whom he spoke in his last wordsto me.
What was the history of this son, or of Fonseca himself, I neverlearned, for like an Indian he hid his trail as step by step he wandereddown the path of life. He never spoke of his past, and in all the booksand documents that he left behind him there is no allusion to it. Once,some years ago, I read through the cipher volumes of records that I havespoken of, and of which he gave me the key before he died. They standbefore me on the shelf as I write, and in them are many histories ofshame, sorrow, and evil, of faith deluded and innocence betrayed, ofthe cruelty of priests, of avarice triumphant over love, and of lovetriumphant over death--enough, indeed, to furnish half a hundred oftrue romances. But among these chronicles of a generation now past andforgotten, there is no mention of Fonseca's own name and no hint of hisown story. It is lost for ever, and perhaps this is well. So died mybenefactor and best friend.
When he was made ready for burial I went in to see him and he lookedcalm and beautiful in his death sleep. Then it was that she who hadarrayed him for the grave handed to me two portraits most delicatelypainted on ivory and set in gold, which had been found about his neck.I have them yet. One is of the head of a lady with a sweet and wistfulcountenance, and the other the face of a dead youth also beautiful, butvery sad. Doubtless they were mother and son, but I know no more aboutt
hem.
On the morrow I buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he hadsaid that he wished as little money as possible spent upon his deadbody, and returned to the house to meet the notaries. Then the sealswere broken and the parchments read and I was put in full possession ofthe dead man's wealth, and having deducted such sums as were payable fordues, legacies, and fees, the notaries left me bowing humbly, for was Inot rich? Yes, I was rich, wealth had come to me without effort, andI had reason to desire it, yet this was the saddest night that I hadpassed since I set foot in Spain, for my mind was filled with doubts andsorrow, and moreover my loneliness got a hold of me. But sad as it mightbe, it was destined to seem yet more sorrowful before the morning. Foras I sat making pretence to eat, a servant came to me saying that awoman waited in the outer room who had asked to see his late master.Guessing that this was some client who had not heard of Fonseca's deathI was about to order that she should be dismissed, then bethought methat I might be of service to her or at the least forget some of my owntrouble in listening to hers. So I bade him bring her in. Presently shecame, a tall woman wrapped in a dark cloak that hid her face. I bowedand motioned to her to be seated, when suddenly she started and spoke.
'I asked to see Don Andres de Fonseca,' she said in a low quick voice.'You are not he, senor.'
'Andres de Fonseca was buried to-day,' I answered. 'I was his assistantin his business and am his heir. If I can serve you in any way I am atyour disposal.'
'You are young--very young,' she murmured confusedly, 'and the matter isterrible and urgent. How can I trust you?'
'It is for you to judge, senora.'
She thought a while, then drew off her cloak, displaying the robes of anun.
'Listen,' she said. 'I must do many a penance for this night's work, andvery hardly have I won leave to come hither upon an errand of mercy. NowI cannot go back empty-handed, so I must trust you. But first swear bythine blessed Mother of God that you will not betray me.'
'I give you my word,' I answered; 'if that is not enough, let us endthis talk.'
'Do not be angry with me,' she pleaded; 'I have not left my conventwalls for many years and I am distraught with grief. I seek a poison ofthe deadliest. I will pay well for it.'
'I am not the tool of murderers,' I answered. 'For what purpose do youwish the poison?'
'Oh! I must tell you--yet how can I? In our convent there dies to-nighta woman young and fair, almost a girl indeed, who has broken the vowsshe took. She dies to-night with her babe--thus, oh God, thus! by beingbuilt alive into the foundations of the house she has disgraced. It isthe judgment that has been passed upon her, judgment without forgivenessor reprieve. I am the abbess of this convent--ask not its name ormine--and I love this sinner as though she were my daughter. I haveobtained this much of mercy for her because of my faithful servicesto the church and by secret influence, that when I give her the cup ofwater before the work is done, I may mix poison with it and touch thelips of the babe with poison, so that their end is swift. I may do thisand yet have no sin upon my soul. I have my pardon under seal. Help methen to be an innocent murderess, and to save this sinner from her lastagonies on earth.'
I cannot set down the feelings with which I listened to this taleof horror, for words could not carry them. I stood aghast seeking ananswer, and a dreadful thought entered my mind.
'Is this woman named Isabella de Siguenza?' I asked.
'That name was hers in the world,' she answered, 'though how you know itI cannot guess.'
'We know many things in this house, mother. Say now, can this Isabellabe saved by money or by interest?'
'It is impossible; her sentence has been confirmed by the Tribunal ofMercy. She must die and within two hours. Will you not give the poison?'
'I cannot give it unless I know its purpose, mother. This may be abarren tale, and the medicine might be used in such a fashion that Ishould fall beneath the law. At one price only can I give it, and it isthat I am there to see it used.'
She thought a while and answered: 'It may be done, for as it chances thewording of my absolution will cover it. But you must come cowled as apriest, that those who carry out the sentence may know nothing. Stillothers will know and I warn you that should you speak of the matter youyourself will meet with misfortune. The Church avenges itself on thosewho betray its secrets, senor.'
'As one day its secrets will avenge themselves upon the Church,' Ianswered bitterly. 'And now let me seek a fitting drug--one that isswift, yet not too swift, lest your hounds should see themselves baffledof the prey before all their devilry is done. Here is something thatwill do the work,' and I held up a phial that I drew from a case of suchmedicines. 'Come, veil yourself, mother, and let us be gone upon this"errand of mercy."'
She obeyed, and presently we left the house and walked away swiftlythrough the crowded streets till we came to the ancient part of the cityalong the river's edge. Here the woman led me to a wharf where a boatwas in waiting for her. We entered it, and were rowed for a mile or moreup the stream till the boat halted at a landing-place beneath a highwall. Leaving it, we came to a door in the wall on which my companionknocked thrice. Presently a shutter in the woodwork was drawn, and awhite face peeped through the grating and spoke. My companion answeredin a low voice, and after some delay the door was opened, and I foundmyself in a large walled garden planted with orange trees. Then theabbess spoke to me.
'I have led you to our house,' she said. 'If you know where you are, andwhat its name may be, for your own sake I pray you forget it when youleave these doors.'
I made no answer, but looked round the dim and dewy garden.
Here it was doubtless that de Garcia had met that unfortunate who mustdie this night. A walk of a hundred paces brought us to another door inthe wall of a long low building of Moorish style. Here the knocking andthe questioning were repeated at more length. Then the door was opened,and I found myself in a passage, ill lighted, long and narrow, in thedepths of which I could see the figures of nuns flitting to and fro likebats in a tomb. The abbess walked down the passage till she came to adoor on the right which she opened. It led into a cell, and here sheleft me in the dark. For ten minutes or more I stayed there, a prey tothoughts that I had rather forget. At length the door opened again, andshe came in, followed by a tall priest whose face I could not see, forhe was dressed in the white robe and hood of the Dominicans that leftnothing visible except his eyes.
'Greeting, my son,' he said, when he had scanned me for a while. 'Theabbess mother has told me of your errand. You are full young for such atask.'
'Were I old I should not love it better, father. You know the case. Iam asked to provide a deadly drug for a certain merciful purpose. I haveprovided that drug, but I must be there to see that it is put to properuse.'
'You are very cautious, my son. The Church is no murderess. This womanmust die because her sin is flagrant, and of late such wickednesshas become common. Therefore, after much thought and prayer, and manysearchings to find a means of mercy, she is condemned to death by thosewhose names are too high to be spoken. I, alas, am here to see thesentence carried out with a certain mitigation which has been allowed bythe mercy of her chief judge. It seems that your presence is needful tothis act of love, therefore I suffer it. The mother abbess has warnedyou that evil dogs the feet of those who reveal the secrets of theChurch. For your own sake I pray you to lay that warning to heart.'
'I am no babbler, father, so the caution is not needed. One word more.This visit should be well feed, the medicine is costly.'
'Fear not, physician,' the monk answered with a note of scorn in hisvoice; 'name your sum, it shall be paid to you.'
'I ask no money, father. Indeed I would pay much to be far awayto-night. I ask only that I may be allowed to speak with this girlbefore she dies.'
'What!' he said, starting, 'surely you are not that wicked man? If so,you are bold indeed to risk the sharing of her fate.'
'No, father, I am not that man. I never saw Isabella de Siguenza e
xceptonce, and I have never spoken to her. I am not the man who tricked herbut I know him; he is named Juan de Garcia.'
'Ah!' he said quickly, 'she would never tell his real name, even underthreat of torture. Poor erring soul, she could be faithful in herunfaith. Of what would you speak to her?'
'I wish to ask her whither this man has gone. He is my enemy, and Iwould follow him as I have already followed him far. He has done worseby me and mine than by this poor girl even. Grant my request, father,that I may be able to work my vengeance on him, and with mine theChurch's also.'
'"Vengeance is mine," saith the Lord; "I will repay." Yet it may be,son, that the Lord will choose you as the instrument of his wrath.An opportunity shall be given you to speak with her. Now put on thisdress'--and he handed me a white Dominican hood and robe--'and followme.'
'First,' I said, 'let me give this medicine to the abbess, for I willhave no hand in its administering. Take it, mother, and when the timecomes, pour the contents of the phial into a cup of water. Then, havingtouched the mouth and tongue of the babe with the fluid, give it to themother to drink and be sure that she does drink it. Before the bricksare built up about them both will sleep sound, never to wake again.'
'I will do it,' murmured the abbess; 'having absolution I will be bold,and do it for love and mercy's sake!'
'Your heart is too soft, sister. Justice is mercy,' said the monk with asigh. 'Alas for the frailty of the flesh that wars against the spirit!'
Then I clothed myself in the ghastly looking dress, and they took lampsand motioned to me to follow them.