CHAPTER IX
THOMAS BECOMES RICH
For many months we heard no more of de Garcia or of Isabella de
Siguenza. Both had vanished leaving no sign, and we searched for
them in vain. As for me I fell back into my former way of life of
assistant to Fonseca, posing before the world as his nephew. But
it came about that from the night of my duel with the murderer, my
master's health declined steadily through the action of a wasting
disease of the liver which baffled all skill, so that within eight
months of that time he lay almost bedridden and at the point of
death. His mind indeed remained quite clear, and on occasions he
would even receive those who came to consult 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 the weeks went by he
grew more and more attached to me, till at length, had I 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 a notary. The man he named was sent for and remained closeted
with him for an hour or more, when he left for a while to return
with several of his clerks, who accompanied him to my master's
room, from which I was excluded. Presently they all went away,
bearing some parchments with them.
That evening Fonseca sent for me. I found him very weak, but
cheerful and full of talk.
'Come here, nephew,' he said, 'I have had a busy day. I have been
busy all 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
to leave; not so very much, but still something.'
'Do not talk of wills,' I said; 'I trust that you may live for many
years.'
He laughed. 'You must think badly of my case, nephew, when you
think that I can be deceived thus. I am about to die as you know
well, and I do not fear death. My life has been prosperous but not
happy, for it was blighted in its spring--no matter how. The story
is an old one and not worth telling; moreover, whichever way it had
read, it had all been one now in the hour of death. We must travel
our journey each of us; what does it matter if the road has been
good or bad when we have reached the goal? For my part religion
neither comforts nor frightens me now at the last. I will stand or
fall upon the record of my life. I have done evil in it and I have
done good; the evil I have done because nature and temptation have
been too strong for me at times, the good also because my heart
prompted me to it. Well, it is finished, and after all death
cannot be so terrible, seeing that every human being is born to
undergo it, together with all living things. Whatever else is
false, I hold this to be true, that God exists and is more merciful
than those who preach Him would have us to believe.' And he ceased
exhausted.
Often since then I have thought of his words, and I still think of
them now 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 within certain limits we are allowed to shape our own
characters and destinies. But his last sayings I believe to be
true. God is and is merciful, and death is not terrible either in
its act or in its consequence.
Presently Fonseca spoke again. 'Why do you lead me to talk of such
things? 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 in charities--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
have learned to love you, I who thought that I could never care
again for any man or woman or child. I am grateful to you, who
have proved to me that my 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
you will inherit, nephew, amounts in all to about five thousand
gold pesos, or perhaps twelve thousand of your English pounds,
enough for a young man to begin life on, even with a wife. Indeed
there in England it may well be held a great fortune, and I think
that your betrothed's father will make no more objection to you as
a son-in-law. Also there is this house 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 fullest formality, 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 for the
most part the gold lies in strong boxes in the secret cupboard in
the wall yonder that you know of. It would have been more had I
known you some years ago, for then, thinking that I grew too rich
who was without an heir, I gave away as much as what remains in
acts of mercy and in providing refuge for the homeless and the
suffering. Thomas Wingfield, for the most part this money has come
to me as the fruit of human folly and human wretchedness, frailty
and sin. Use it for the purposes of wisdom and the advancing of
right and liberty. May it prosper 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 one word more. If your conscience
will let you, abandon the pursuit of de Garcia. Take your fortune
and go with it to England; wed that maid whom you desire, and
follow after happiness in whatever way seems best to you. Who are
you that you should meet out vengeance on this knave de Garcia?
Let him be, and he will avenge himself upon himself. Otherwise you
may undergo much toil and danger, and in the end lose love, and
life, and fortune at a blow.'
'But I have sworn to kill him,' I answered, 'and how can I break so
solemn an oath? How could I sit at home in peace beneath the
burden of such shame?'
'I do not know; it is not for me to judge. You must do as you
wish, but in the doing of it, it may happen that you will fall into
greater shames than this. You have fought the man and he has
escaped you. Let him go if you are wise. Now bend down and kiss
me, and bid me farewell. I do not desire that you should see me
die, and my death is near. I cannot tell if we shall meet again
when in your turn you have lain as I lie now, or if 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 I
wept, for not till this hour did I learn how truly I had come to
love him, 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 a son like you, and ours was the bitterest of farewells. Now I
go to seek for 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
with Andres de Fonseca. They told me that he was conscious to the
end and died murmuring the name of that son of whom he spoke in his
last words to me.
What was the history of this son, or of Fonseca himself, I never
learned, for like an Indian he hid his trail as step by step he
wandered down the path of life. He never spoke of his past, and in
all the books and 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 have spoken of, and of which he gave me
the key before he died. They stand before me on the shelf as I
write, and in them are many histories of shame, sorrow, and evil,
of faith deluded and innocence betrayed, of the cruelty of priests,
of avarice triumphant over love, and of love triumphant over death--
enough, indeed, to furnish half a hundred of true romances. But
among these chronicles of a generation now past and forgotten,
there is no mention of Fonseca's own name and no hint of his own
story. It is lost for ever, and perhaps this is well. So died my
benefactor and best friend.
When he was made ready for burial I went in to see him and he
looked calm and beautiful in his death sleep. Then it was that she
who had arrayed him for the grave handed to me two portraits most
delicately painted 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 wistful countenance, and the other the face of a
dead youth also beautiful, but very sad. Doubtless they were
mother and son, but I know no more about them.
On the morrow I buried Andres de Fonseca, but with no pomp, for he
had said that he wished as little money as possible spent upon his
dead body, and returned to the house to meet the notaries. Then
the seals were broken and the parchments read and I was put in full
possession of the dead man's wealth, and having deducted such sums
as were payable for dues, legacies, and fees, the notaries left me
bowing humbly, for was I not rich? Yes, I was rich, wealth had
come to me without effort, and I had reason to desire it, yet this
was the saddest night that I had passed since I set foot in Spain,
for my mind was filled with doubts and sorrow, and moreover my
loneliness got a hold of me. But sad as it might be, it was
destined to seem yet more sorrowful before the morning. For as I
sat making pretence to eat, a servant came to me saying that a
woman 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 death I was about to order that she should be dismissed,
then bethought me that I might be of service to her or at the least
forget some of my own trouble in listening to hers. So I bade him
bring her in. Presently she came, a tall woman wrapped in a dark
cloak that hid her face. I bowed and 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
assistant in his business and am his heir. If I can serve you in
any way I am at your disposal.'
'You are young--very young,' she murmured confusedly, 'and the
matter is terrible 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 a nun.
'Listen,' she said. 'I must do many a penance for this night's
work, and very hardly have I won leave to come hither upon an
errand of mercy. Now I cannot go back empty-handed, so I must
trust you. But first swear by thine blessed Mother of God that you
will not betray me.'
'I give you my word,' I answered; 'if that is not enough, let us
end this talk.'
'Do not be angry with me,' she pleaded; 'I have not left my convent
walls for many years and I am distraught with grief. I seek a
poison of the deadliest. I will pay well for it.'
'I am not the tool of murderers,' I answered. 'For what purpose do
you wish the poison?'
'Oh! I must tell you--yet how can I? In our convent there dies to-
night a woman young and fair, almost a girl indeed, who has broken
the vows she took. She dies to-night with her babe--thus, oh God,
thus! by being built alive into the foundations of the house she
has disgraced. It is the judgment that has been passed upon her,
judgment without forgiveness or reprieve. I am the abbess of this
convent--ask not its name or mine--and I love this sinner as though
she were my daughter. I have obtained this much of mercy for her
because of my faithful services to the church and by secret
influence, that when I give her the cup of water before the work is
done, I may mix poison with it and touch the lips of the babe with
poison, so that their end is swift. I may do this and yet have no
sin upon my soul. I have my pardon under seal. Help me then to be
an innocent murderess, and to save this sinner from her last
agonies on earth.'
I cannot set down the feelings with which I listened to this tale
of horror, for words could not carry them. I stood aghast seeking
an answer, 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 it I cannot guess.'
'We know many things in this house, mother. Say now, can this
Isabella be saved by money or by interest?'
'It is impossible; her sentence has been confirmed by the Tribunal
of Mercy. 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 a
barren tale, and the medicine might be used in such a fashion that
I should fall beneath the law. At one price only can I give it,
and it is that I am there to see it used.'
She thought a while and answered: 'It may be done, for as it
chances the wording of my absolution will cover it. But you must
come cowled as a priest, that those who carry out the sentence may
know nothing. Still others will know and I warn you that should
you speak of the matter you yourself will meet with misfortune.
The Church avenges itself on those who betray its secrets, senor.'
'As one day its secrets will avenge themselves upon the Church,' I
answered bitterly. 'And now let me seek a fitting drug--one that
is swift, yet not too swift, lest your hounds should see themselves
baffled of the prey before all their devilry is done. Here is
something that will do the work,' and I held up a phial that I drew
from a case of such medicines. 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 swiftly
through the crowded streets till we came to the ancient part of the
city along the river's edge. Here the woman led me to a wharf
where a boat was in waiting for her. We entered it, and were rowed
for a mile or more up the stream till the boat halted at a landing-
place beneath a high wall. Leaving it, we came to a door in the
wall on which my companion knocked thrice. Presently a shutter in
the woodwork was drawn, and a white face peeped through the grating
and spoke. My companion answered in a low voice, and after some
delay the door was opened, and I found myself in a large walled
garden planted with orange trees. Then the abbess spoke to me.
'I have led you to our house,' she said. 'If you know where you
are, and what its name may be, for your own sake I pray you forget
it when you leave 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
must die this night. A walk of a hundred paces brought us to
another door in the wall of a long low building of Moorish style.
Here the knocking and the questioning were repeated at more length.
Then the door was opened, and I found myself in a passage, ill
lighted, long and narrow, in the depths of which I could see the
figures of nuns flitting to and fro like bats in a tomb. The
abbess walked down the passage till she came to a door on the right
which she opened. It led into a cell, and here she left me in the
dark. For ten minutes or more I stayed there, a prey to thoughts
that I had rather forget. At length the door opened again, and she
came in, followed by a tall priest whose face I could not see, for
he was dressed in the white robe and hood of the Dominicans that
left nothing visible except his eyes.
'Greeting, my son,' he said, when he had scanned me for a while.
'The abbess mother has told me of your errand. You are full young
for such a task.'
'Were I old I should not love it better, father. You know the
case. I am asked to provide a deadly drug for a certain merciful
purpose. I have provided that drug, but I must be there to see
that it is put to proper use.'
'You are very cautious, my son. The Church is no murderess. This
woman must die because her sin is flagrant, and of late such
wickedness has become common. Therefore, after much thought and
prayer, and many searchings to find a means of mercy, she is
condemned to death by those whose names are too high to be spoken.
I, alas, am here to see the sentence carried out with a certain
mitigation which has been allowed by the mercy of her chief judge.
It seems that your presence is needful to this act of love,
therefore I suffer it. The mother abbess has warned you that evil
dogs the feet of those who reveal the secrets of the Church. 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
his voice; 'name your sum, it shall be paid to you.'
'I ask no money, father. Indeed I would pay much to be far away
to-night. I ask only that I may be allowed to speak with this girl
before 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
except once, and I have never spoken to her. I am not the man who
tricked her but I know him; he is named Juan de Garcia.'
'Ah!' he said quickly, 'she would never tell his real name, even
under threat of torture. Poor erring soul, she could be faithful
in her unfaith. Of what would you speak to her?'
'I wish to ask her whither this man has gone. He is my enemy, and
I would follow him as I have already followed him far. He has done
worse by 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 the Church'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 this dress'--and he handed me a white Dominican hood and
robe--'and follow me.'
'First,' I said, 'let me give this medicine to the abbess, for I
will have no hand in its administering. Take it, mother, and when
the time comes, pour the contents of the phial into a cup of water.
Then, having touched the mouth and tongue of the babe with the
fluid, give it to the mother to drink and be sure that she does
drink it. Before the bricks are 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 a sigh. 'Alas for the frailty of the flesh that wars against
the spirit!'
Then I clothed myself in the ghastly looking dress, and they took
lamps and motioned to me to follow them.
