THE STORY OF A TEAR
All this happened in exalted spheres, while in the obscure regions of
private life events were transpiring which, albeit not so memorable,
were of some importance to those concerned.
On the day following the interview already narrated between Venturita
and Gonzalo, the young man did not appear at his betrothed's; he
remained at home, feigning a seizure of violent toothache. Such at least
was the news that reached Cecilia through Elvira, the maid, who met Don
Melchor's servant on the market-place. As the young man did not appear
the next day either, the family thought he was still suffering, but
Venturita and Valentina were not deceived. The embroideress avoided
meeting the girl's eyes, perhaps from fear of embarrassing her, or
because she herself felt embarrassed without knowing why. Venturita was
as merry as ever; and Cecilia, the only one anxious enough to be silent,
took a toothache mixture from her wardrobe, copied out a prayer to Saint
Polonia which had been given her, and calling Elvira mysteriously
aside, she said with a deep blush:
"Elvira, will you be so kind as to take this bottle and paper to Senor
Gonzalo?"
"Now, at once?"
"As soon as you can. If you have nothing to do just now---- But I don't
want it to be talked about."
"All right, senorita," returned the pale little brunette, smiling
kindly, "nobody shall know a word about it. Your mother was just asking
for some starch, so I will go and get some."
When Gonzalo received the little packet, he was overwhelmed with
remorse, and paced up and down the room in agitation. Three or four
times he was on the point of taking his hat, going to the Belinchons'
house, and letting things go on as before. All the feelings of honor,
kindness, and goodness inherent in him, the voice of reason which spoke
for Cecilia--in one word, the good angel which every man has within him,
impelled him to this course. But he could not drive the pretty, graceful
image of Venturita from his mind: the fire of her eyes seemed still to
pierce his soul, the sweet, voluptuous touch of her golden hair--in
fact, his bad angel held him back. Gonzalo was a man of physical health,
powerful muscles, rich blood, but with a weak will. Evil spirits fear
delicate constitutions more than a fine one like his. The battle fought
by his good and bad angels did not last long; it was soon decided in
favor of the latter by means of a note from Venturita brought by the
other maid of the house. It ran thus:
"Don't be impatient. To-day I will speak to mama. Trust in me.
VENTURITA."
The look of the maid as she gave this note seemed, in spite of her
smile, to convey a tacit reproach, which somewhat upset him. He
dismissed her with a handsome tip; and on opening the letter with a
trembling hand, he noticed the sandal perfume, always used by Venturita,
and as it recalled to his mind the bewitching, beautiful girl, it set
chords vibrating in his being which had hitherto remained untouched. He
put the letter to his lips, and intoxicated with passion, he kissed it
effusively many times.
Poor Cecilia! She had taken the first piece of paper that came to hand,
and without waiting for perfumes, she generally wrote to her lover in
pencil.
If women only knew the importance of these wretched details!
Venturita had been hovering about her mother all day, waiting for an
opportunity of speaking privately to her. In the evening, when the
needlewomen had gone, the mother and daughter were at last alone.
Cecilia had retired to her room, a prey to a depression that she had
tried to combat by work during the day. Dona Paula was seated in an
armchair with her eyes fixed on the window, looking at the last rays of
the setting sun, in a melancholy, pensive attitude unusual in her. She
seemed to forebode the trouble that was coming. Venturita put the
embroidery frames away in a corner, covered them over with a cloth,
arranged the chairs in order and dragged the work-basket to one side so
that it should not be in the way.
"Have the lights brought," said Dona Paula.
"Why?" returned the girl, taking a low chair by her side. "It is all
tidy now."
Her mother turned her eyes again to the window, and resumed her
melancholy attitude. At the end of some minutes' silence Venturita took
her parent's hand and raised it affectionately to her lips. Dona Paula
turned her head with surprise. Seldom, nay never, had her youngest
daughter given this respectful kiss. She smiled sweetly, and taking her
by the chin, she said:
"Are you pleased with the dress?"
"Yes, mama."
"It makes you a very pretty figure. If it is taken in a little at the
waist it will be charming."
The girl was silent, and after a minute she raised her eyes, and,
controlling her voice, said in a calm tone:
"I say, mama, what do you think of Gonzalo's retreat?"
"Gonzalo's retreat!" exclaimed the senora, turning her head anxiously.
"What do you mean, child?"
"Yes, his retreat, because I don't believe that he is ill; yesterday he
was playing billiards at the Marina Cafe all the evening."
"Bah! bah! you are joking."
"I am not joking; I am serious."
"And who told you that?"
"I know it from Nieves, who was told by her brother."
"The pain probably left him in the evening, and he went out for a little
change."
"Well, then, why did he not come to-day?"
"Because the pain no doubt returned."
"Don't you believe it, mama. You can be quite certain Gonzalo does not
love Cecilia."
"Do you know what you are saying, child? Be so good as to hold your
tongue, before you make me angry."
"I will be silent, but the proofs that he is giving of his affection are
not very great."
"That I should have to hear this!" said the senora, turning round
proudly. "If Gonzalo is somebody, Cecilia is as good. My daughter is not
to be treated with disrespect by Gonzalo, or the Prince of Asturias, do
you hear? I will inquire into the truth of what you have said, and if
it be true, I will take measures."
Dona Paula was naturally kind and gentle, a friend of the poor, and
generous; but she had the unreflective pride and the extreme touchiness
of the working class of Sarrio.
"No, mama, I don't mean that. Who said that Gonzalo treats Cecilia with
disrespect?"
"You yourself. Why does he not love her then?"
Venturita hesitated a moment, and then replied with firmness:
"Because he loves me."
"Come," said the senora laughing, "I ought to have seen from the first
that it was all a joke."
"It is not a joke, it is pure truth, and if you want convincing you can
see for yourself."
Then she drew from her bosom a letter which she had ready, and handed it
to her mother; whereupon Dona Paula sprang to her feet and cried:
"Quick! a light, quick!"
Venturita took a box of tapers that was on the table, and lighted one.
Mother and daughter were pale. The mother held the letter to the light,
and after reading a few lines she dropped into an armchair, and fixing
her eyes on her daughter with a sad expression, she said:
"Ventura, what have you done?"
"I? Nothing," returned the girl, letting the taper, which was nearly
burnt out, fall to the floor.
"Is it then nothing to you, you heartless, mad creature, to prevent the
marriage of your sister, to deceive her so abominably and to give rise
to such a scandal in the town as never was seen?"
"I have not done all this. He was the one to declare himself to me. Is
it then a sin to be loved?"
"On this occasion, yes," replied the senora severely; "at the first sign
you ought to have told me. To allow him to speak to you in any other way
than as to a sister was treachery to your sister, and does little credit
to yourself."
"Well, there it is," returned the girl in a scornful tone.
"Then it shall not be," said Dona Paula angrily, as she rose from her
seat. "What do you suggest? Come, say; or rather, what have you
suggested?"
"You can imagine."
"To marry each other, eh?" she asked in a sarcastic tone. "Then you are
greatly mistaken! The marriage of your sister is broken off--Well, it is
as good as broken off--Of course, you are free to marry Gonzalo, but
don't you think you will set foot in this house. In the first place, you
are a bad girl who ought to pay for your grimacings; and in any case
your father and I will not consent to your marrying a man who has
treated your sister so disgracefully and deceived us all round. People
would indeed say that we were dying to have him for a son-in-law, so
give up the idea, child."
"Well, if you like it or not," said Venturita, flouncing to the door, "I
shall marry him."
Dona Paula felt inclined to punish this insolence with corporal
punishment, but the girl quickly left the room and shut the door; then
half reopening it, she said in furious tone:
"I will marry him; I will marry him; I will marry him."
The following day Gonzalo received a letter from Ventura in which she
said:
"Yesterday I spoke to mama, and I think she will give in. Keep your
spirits up."
And in effect, that same morning mother and daughter renewed the
conversation in the daughter's room. It was a long interview, and we do
not know what transpired, but at the end of an hour Dona Paula appeared
with her eyes red with weeping and her hand on her heart, from which she
frequently suffered, and retiring to her room she went to bed.
Ventura came out behind her, quiet but pale, and calling Generosa, her
confidential maid, she gave her a letter for Gonzalo, who that evening
appeared at nine o'clock in front of Belinchon's house. A few minutes
later, Venturita opened the window of the library, which was on the
ground floor and protected with iron gratings.
"Everything is settled," she said in a falsetto voice, directly the
young man approached.
"No! How? Really?" he asked in a tone of delight.
"It has been a pretty hard task for me! She was furious."
"And your papa?"
"Papa knows nothing about it yet, but he will give in, too. See if he
won't give in. The measure taken could not have been more effectual."
"What measure?"
"The one I took. The whole business looked so hopeless that it would
have ended by your being forbidden the house, and I should have been
packed off to Tejada in disgrace. All entreaties, all arguments were in
vain; she was mad with rage, she called you an infamous traitor, you can
imagine how she spoke of me! Then I saw that there was nothing for it
but to take a strong measure; and it was somewhat strong," she added in
a low, changed voice.
"What strong measure?" asked Gonzalo with curiosity.
Venturita was silent for some moments, and then somewhat shamefacedly
returned:
"I told her--I told her that there was nothing else for us but to marry
each other."
"Why?"
"Why--why--guess why!" said the girl with impatience.
Then Gonzalo divined what she meant, and the knowledge filled him with
repugnance and terror. A gloomy silence fell upon him, and Venturita at
last said:
"Do you think it was wrong?"
"Yes," he returned dryly.
"All right, my boy; to-morrow I will tell her it was all a lie, and then
all is over between us."
"That won't do any good. I do not quarrel with the result, as you must
know, but with the way you have managed it."
"I lose more than you."
"Well, I feel it all the same."
"All right, then show it," she returned in a pet, jumping up from the
window-sill, where she had been seated.
But Gonzalo put his hand through the bars, and caught her by the dress.
"Stop."
The dress tore.
"Now you have torn my frock, do you see?"
"Well, don't go so quickly."
And succeeding in catching her by the arm, he obliged her to sit down
again.
"What rough manners!" exclaimed the girl, laughing; "that must be the
way bears make love."
"Do you love me?" asked Gonzalo, also laughing.
"No."
"Yes."
"No."
"Give me your hand as a friend."
The girl then gave him her pink and white hand, and the herculean youth
kissed it passionately several times.
"Good-by till to-morrow, and I will tell you all the news," she said,
once more rising from her seat.
Gonzalo withdrew, and after taking a few steps he recollected that the
news signified the way in which Cecilia would take his disloyal conduct,
and his forehead corrugated with an expression of pain. In this state of
preoccupation he crossed the Rua Nueva, entered the Plaza de la Marina,
went along by the harbor, and reached the end of the mole. The night was
mild and clear. The stars shining in the firmament were reflected in the
tranquil waters of the bay. The rigging of the anchored shipping stood
out distinctly from the dark blue background. The hour for the
extinction of lights had not yet struck, and one could see several
lights and figures on the ships; the sailors reclining on the upper
decks were chatting before retiring to rest.
Occasionally a glance would be cast at a great English steamer anchored
in the middle of the harbor, and a sailor would call out, with an
exaggeration of the pronunciation:
"_All right_," and a schooner would echo the words, "_All right_" and
the cry would be taken up by all the tenders, schooners, and fishing
smacks. It was a joke upon the English anchored there. But it was
received with silence; the great steamer treated it with the phlegmatic,
profound contempt that nobody can assume better than a son of Albion.
The end of the mole was the resort of anybody who wished to enjoy the
fresh air. It was one of the hottest nights of August. Gonzalo,
overwhelmed by the heat and the difficulty of his position, walked along
with his hat in his hand. Before he reached the end of the mole he
caught sight of a gigantic figure on the second stage.
"I say, uncle," he cried.
The old sailor spent the greater part of his life on that mole in
intimate communion with the sea, his old friend and companion. The
terrible ocean was an open book to him, either sleeping in its immense
bed of sand or awakening and lashing the sky furiously with its foam. He
could accurately forecast its rages, its storms, its smiles, and its
profoundest working. To him the monster seemed to reveal its liquid
heart as to a faithful friend, and told him how it fretted in its
granite prison, and how the sight of human wickedness sometimes made it
long to rush over the land and submerge this fulsome human ant-hill. And
the good man, thinking of all the crimes about which he had read, would
reply:
"You are right, friend; in your place it is probable I should feel the
same."
Nothing in the world would have induced Don Melchor to forego his
morning, afternoon, and evening walks at the end of the mole. During his
wife's lifetime, when he was under surveillance, he had to his great
vexation been obliged to give up the later walks. But now unfortunately,
as he had no one to look after him and keep him in hand, he did as he
liked.
Nothing came up to the sea air cure for catarrh. When occasionally he
had a pain in his inside, he drank a couple of glasses of salt water and
he was all right. There is no better or simpler medicine than sea water.
Once he had a bad leg: two ulcers corroded the flesh down to the bone;
and the doctors not only gave the leg up for lost, but despaired of his
life. In desperation he had himself carried down to the beach and
bathed. After nine baths the ulcers were cured. One can imagine what he
thought of the curative efficacy of the sea after that!
On the other hand, he had a great objection to rivers. The air of a
river made him hoarse, the fogs suffocated him, and gave him asthma. The
"shut-in" feeling of the air filled him with aversion and unspeakable
dislike. Don Melchor slept little; he rose before sunrise; and directly
he got up he ascended to his observatory, and examined the sky and the
sea; and after drawing out in his head a meteorological map of the
coming day, he went down to the end of the mole to corroborate his
observations; ascertained whether the wind was passing, or settled, if
it were positively north, or inclined to the east or west, if the
weather were going to be good or bad, if the sea would be stormy or
calm, how long the weather would remain as it was; to what quarter the
wind would veer at mid-day; if the sea would then be calm or rough,
etc., etc.
He could not take his chocolate until he had made all these
observations.
And really, however this may look like a mania, I think it is less silly
than rising from one's bed to notice if one's neighbor's face is clean
or dirty, cheerful or sad, if he eats or if he fasts, if he sleeps or if
he wakes, if he be idle or industrious, how long he remains at home, and
what road he takes when he goes out. Gonzalo mounted the upper wall
with an irresistible desire to unburden his heart and tell his uncle
what had happened, for although his character was little adapted for
love confidences, the occasion was important and critical. Don Melchor,
who walked a little bent under the weight of years, straightened himself
at the sight of a man approaching, for he was anxious to hide all signs
of weakness from the world, and he liked to be thought a stalwart
fellow.
"Is that you, Gonzalo?"
"It is I, uncle."
"That is a wonder! For you like seeing billiard balls roll better than
waves."
"No; I have not played billiards to-day. But I am worried and upset, and
I want to speak to you about an important matter; in fact I want your
advice."
Don Melchor looked at him in surprise.
"An important matter?"
"Yes--look here, uncle; would you marry a woman you did not love?"
"What a question! Matrimony at my age is a thing of the past, my boy."
"But if you were young, would you marry like that?"
"Never."
"Very well, uncle--I do not love Cecilia."
"You do not love Cecilia?" exclaimed the old gentleman in horror.
It must be said that Don Melchor had a blind affection, almost
adoration, for his nephew's betrothed--the girl was sacred to him. From
the time that he knew Gonzalo's affections were set in that quarter he
inspected her as carefully as if he were examining the hulk of a ship
before masting her. He had considered her kind, quiet, intelligent, and
capable, and his delight at the marriage was only embittered by hearing
that the engaged couple were not going to live with him.
He seldom visited Belinchon's house, but when he met the girl in the
street he made a point of stopping her and treating her with exceptional
courtesy and attention.
"You do not love her?" he repeated. "And why don't you love her, you
dunderhead?"
"I don't know. I have made superhuman efforts to love her, and I have
not succeeded."
"And you have just found that out--a month before your marriage? Come,
Gonzalo, you have got a screw loose."
"It is shameful--I grant it--but I can't resign myself to being unhappy
for life."
"Unhappy! And you call it unhappiness, you great fool, to marry the
nicest and prettiest girl in Sarrio, for no other can hold a candle to
her."
Gonzalo could not forbear smiling.
"Cecilia is a good girl, and worthy of marrying a better man than I am,
but pretty, uncle--"
"Pretty, yes, pretty, you fool!" exclaimed the Senor de las Cuevas in a
rage; "you would find fault with an angel."
Surprising as the statement may be, the old man was at that time of life
when one is more impressed by the poetry of womanhood, seen in exquisite
sensibility, resignation, sweetness, and self-sacrifice, than by the
ephemeral physical charms before which impetuous youth is so prone to
fall captive.
"Do not let us quarrel about it."
"But we will quarrel about it--I won't have Cecilia spoken of like
that--so there!"
"All right; then I'll say that Cecilia is a very pretty girl--but--"
"But what?"
"But I can not love her, because I love another."
"What thousand deviltries are you saying now, boy?" returned Don
Melchor, taking his nephew by the arm and shaking him.
"I can not help it, uncle. I am madly in love with her sister,
Venturita."
"Are you in your senses or out of them, you madman?"
"I am speaking seriously--I love her, and she loves me."
"And you think that this is all there is to be said?" said the old man,
getting more and more angry. "Do you think a solemn promise can be
broken in that way? Do you think a girl can be made the laughing-stock
of a place like this? Do you think any parents will tolerate such
infamous conduct?"
"Uncle," returned Gonzalo quietly, "before daring to tell you this,
things have occurred which have made me take this step. My position with
Venturita is an established fact; her mother knows it, and has
authorized it, and by this time her father has also been made acquainted
with the circumstances."
"And will give his consent?"
"I am sure he will."
Don Melchor dropped his nephew's arm, and raised his hand to his
forehead. It was some time before he could speak. At last he said in
slow and melancholy tones:
"All right. I am powerless to prevent this disgrace--for it is a
disgrace," he added forcibly. "You are of age, and even if you were not
I would have nothing to do with such a business."
"Are you angry?"
"There is no use being angry. I am only very sorry. I am sorry for her,
for I am very fond of her--and I am still more sorry for you, Gonzalo.
God can not help the man who breaks his word. You were on a safe ship,
well built of white, seasoned wood, with the flats well lined, straight
strong masts, and bright and smart rigging; and you leave that to
embark in a craft that is prettier and showier. You are making a fine
experiment, but take heed, lad, the journey is long, the sea wide and
wild; when all the calm and beauty of the present becomes a scene of
storm, when the soft winds rise to a hurricane, matters become serious,
and pretty decorations and designs are of no avail where timber--good
strong timber--is required. Give me good timber and I will take you for
miles. It is not much good for a ship to leave a port well dressed if
her hulk is not equal to her get up. You know that I liked Cecilia--I am
very sorry that I can not say the same of her sister. And this is not
speaking against her; I do not know her well enough to do that, neither
do I feel inclined to, but I can and I ought to tell you my sentiments
although you disregard them."
"Oh, uncle!"
"It does not matter, my boy; when a lad's mind is set upon anything,
full sail must be set and he must go before the wind. Everything looks
ship-shape--but foul weather comes, and I tell you, you are not
navigating your ship well, you are not behaving like a gentleman."
"Uncle!"
"The facts speak for themselves. Even if you have got over her parents,
and overcome all difficulties, you can't make black white, and make a
bad action good. Heave the anchor and unfurl the sails. I am old, and I
hope I shall not live to see the storms overtake you. But if it be God's
will to punish me thus, if for my sins I have to see you shipping water
with bare masts, I shall feel, my boy, that it is beyond my power to
help you."
At these last words the voice of the old man shook; Gonzalo's heart
strings tightened. For some time they were both silent; and then Don
Melchor said:
"Come along to supper, Gonzalo."
"I am not hungry now," returned the young man, "but I will come
presently."
"Very well. Good-by," said the Senor de las Cuevas sadly, and turning
his steps shoreward, he was gradually lost in the gloom.
Gonzalo remained where he was, with his eyes fixed on the wall of the
mole, against which the sea was quietly washing. The waves after
breaking against the stone wall with a soft, hollow murmur, receded with
a sharp sound like that of curtain rings being drawn. The phosphoric
brilliance of the foam proved the presence of the millions of beings
existing as comfortably in the watery depths as we do on the dry land in
spite of their wild career through space. The monster slept under the
dark mantle of night quietly and peacefully, as a child undisturbed by
bad dreams. The soft sough of its respiration was hardly audible in the
hollows of the rocks.
The black outline of Cape San Lorenzo stretched far out to sea on the
west where the revolving white, green, and red lights of the lighthouse
at the point were visible. The stars were shining in the firmament with
wondrous power. Jupiter blazed in the heavens like the god of night
piercing the darkness with its golden rays. Suddenly a change came over
the scene. The pale crescent of the moon raised its horn in the east
over the tranquil water, and irradiated it with a track of light.
Lucifer paled before the serene splendor of the goddess, whose slow and
majestic ascent eclipsed the brilliance of the starry orbs of every size
about her. She rose in a radiant splendid atmosphere emitting,
diffusing, and disseminating the ambient soft influence of her wondrous
presence. And the ocean, ebbing and flowing since the beginning of the
world under this same influence, now kindles like a flame of fire; its
vast shining bosom trembles, and it dashes its waters over the rocks of
Santa Maria like enormous stratae of mercury, which in their retreat
mingle with the incoming waves.
Sublime silence reigned, and a sense of ineffable peace pervaded the
scene so old, and yet so new. Nature herself seemed to stop and listen
to the eternal harmony of the heavens. The waves softly kissed each
other without daring to interrupt the august serenity of the night with
any louder sounds.
In spite of the great uneasiness which the conversation with his uncle
had caused him, Gonzalo felt the fascination of the sea, the sky, and
the moon, and his uneasiness changed to sadness. The severe words of the
old sailor had suddenly awakened his conscience, and the struggle
between his good and bad angel recommenced. For one moment his good
angel nearly conquered. The young man thought he would go to the
Belinchons' house, speak to Dona Paula and beg her to say nothing to
Cecilia, but hurry on the marriage. However, at that moment Venturita's
image came before his mind, and he felt it would be impossible to live
near her without suffering horribly. Then, as it nearly always happens
in these struggles, there came a sense of the unendurable.
"The best thing to do," he said, "will be to go at once. I will return
to France or England, and not marry either. Then there will be no
treachery. The injury I have done Cecilia will soon be forgotten. She
will find a more worthy husband than I, and when I return at the
expiration of a few years I shall probably find her happy, and
surrounded with children. But--but to leave Ventura! to leave that
being, radiant with happiness! No more to hear that voice that fills my
soul with delight! nor to feel the sweet touch of her hand, fresh and
soft as a rosebud! To leave her shining eyes and magnetic smile!--oh,
no!"
Drops of perspiration stood upon his forehead. Mortal anguish filled him
at the thought of separation, and to overcome the sense of it being
definitely settled he said to himself: "We'll see, we'll see. It would
be very difficult to go back now--almost impossible. The mother knows
about it now. Don Rosendo too, and probably Cecilia also by this time."
The good angel loosened his hold and let go his hands as, spent and
defeated, he gave up the struggle. If not with the eyes of the body,
Gonzalo could see with those of the spirit, the white form of the good
angel passing through the serene atmosphere, and vanishing on the
glistening waters.
Then overwhelmed with a strange sadness, he wept. This kind of struggle
can never take place in the human soul without upsetting it for some
time. To win happiness he had to wound the heart of an innocent girl,
break a promise, and be a traitor.
The words of his uncle still echoed in his ears: "God can not help the
man who breaks his word."
And, in fact, he felt himself unworthy of help. A cruel indefinite
presentiment of misery, death, and sadness overwhelmed him; and in one
moment the awfulness of life without virtue or peace was revealed to
him, as to the youth of the legend who embraced a beautiful young woman,
and when the light oscillated with the wind, he saw that she was
transformed into a hideous, hag-like, bony being.
The waves softly washed the wall at his feet, and with his eyes fixed
upon them he abstractedly followed their undulating motion. The seaweed
growing in the depths moved with the motion of the water like the hair
of a dead person. How quietly he could sleep down there! What peace in
those transparent depths! What magic light below! Gonzalo gave ear for
the first time in his life to the eloquent voice of Nature inviting him
to repose in her maternal bosom--the siren voice sweet with irresistible
charm, audible to unhappy creatures, even in their dreams, and so often
leading them to place the cold muzzle of a pistol to their temples. It
was for one minute, not more. His cheerful and sanguine temperament
rebelled against this depression; his vitality, exuberant in his healthy
constitution, indignantly repudiated the passing thought of death. An
insignificant incident, the appearance of a little green light in the
distant horizon, sufficed to divert his attention from these gloomy
ideas.
"A ship coming in," he said. "What time is it?" (He drew out his watch.)
"Half past ten, already! If it were a little earlier I would stop. I'll
go and see if there's anybody at the cafe, for I should like a game of
chapo."
He then took out a fine Havana cigar from his case, and smoking it with
gusto he repaired to the Cafe de la Marina.
Almost at the same time a sad scene was being enacted in the Belinchon
household. Dona Paula had remained all that day in bed, a prey to a
dreadful pain in the left side, which caused her great difficulty in
breathing. With the plebeian's invincible antipathy, nay terror, of
science, she did not like to have a doctor, but she prescribed for
herself some of the numerous remedies recommended by the many medicine
women who came daily to her house to extort money from her with their
vile, exaggerated adulations. So there was no end of embrocations of
meat fat, cups of herb concoctions, the inside of fowls, etc., etc.
At last, by dint of these formidable therapeutics, the good lady
improved in the evening enough to wish to get up; but Cecilia and
Pablito would not hear of it. Both of them had sat with her for some
time at her bedside; Cecilia especially had only left her long enough to
make the embrocations and tisanes. Pablito made frequent excursions into
the corridors, where, curiously enough, he nearly always met Nieves,
from whom he extorted toll tax. Sometimes their suppressed laughter
reached the room of the invalid, and she would smile kindly, and say to
Cecilia:
"What silly creatures!"
For it never occurred to her that her adored son could be up to anything
but hide-and-seek.
As the pain gradually left her, her mind was oppressed with the thought
of telling her daughter the sad news which had made her so ill. She
could only cast long and melancholy glances at the girl as she drew deep
sighs of distress. She said several times:
"Cecilia, listen."
And each time she stopped, and merely asked for some trifle.
Night closed in. Venturita lighted the shaded lamp, and then withdrew.
Pablo, finding his mother better, and seeing no further opportunity of
exercising his seignioral rights in the passage, withdrew to the cafe.
Mother and daughter remained in the bedroom, the former in bed and
seemingly tranquil, the latter seated near her. After a long silence,
during which the Senora de Belinchon turned over in her head a thousand
ways of opening a conversation which might lead naturally to the
confidence she was obliged to make, she said:
"Have the girls worked well to-day?"
"I don't know, I have scarcely seen them," returned Cecilia.
"I think that if they go on at this rate they will finish too soon."
"Perhaps so."
Dona Paula was at a loss to know how to proceed, and remained silent.
At the end of some minutes she took up the thread afresh.
"The trousseau will be completely finished in this month of August, and
I do not think you will be married for some months."
"Some months?"
"I think so. I believe Gonzalo does not wish the day to be so soon,"
said the senora with a trembling voice.
"Has he told you so?"
"Yes, he has told me so--I mean--no, he has not told me so--but I have
guessed it from certain things--from some indirect remarks."
Dona Paula was here overpowered with a feeling of suffocation.
Fortunately Cecilia could not see the flaming color of her cheeks.
"I should like to know what those remarks were," returned the girl in a
firm voice.
"Don't ask me, child of my soul!" exclaimed the senora, bursting into
tears.
Cecilia turned deadly pale, and let her mother kiss the hand she held in
hers, astonished at this emotion.
"What has happened, mama?--speak."
"A terrible thing--my heart--an infamous, infamous thing--I would rather
die this moment than see the ruin and the misery of one of my
daughters."
"Calm yourself, mama; you are ill, and you will do yourself great harm
if you allow yourself to become so excited."
"What does it matter! I tell you I would rather die--I would give my
life for you not to love Gonzalo--You do love him, dear heart? You love
him deeply?"
Cecilia did not reply.
"Tell me, for God's sake, that you do not love him."
Cecilia was still silent; at the end of some minutes, trying in vain to
give a firm tone to her voice, she said:
"Gonzalo declines to marry me, is that it?"
Dona Paula was now silent in her turn, and hid her weeping face in her
hands.
Some minutes went by.
"Has he anything against me?"
"What could he have? Who could have anything against you, my lamb?"
"Then, if I do not please him, or he does not love me, what is to be
done? It is better to be undeceived in time."
"Oh!" cried Dona Paula, breaking into fresh sobs, for under the apparent
resignation of her daughter she detected a profound grief which she
strove in vain to hide.
"What is to be done, mama? Is it not better for him to say so now than
after we are married? Do I not know what a wretched life he would lead
united to a woman he did not love? The pain that he causes me now, great
as it is, is nothing to what I should feel if my husband did not love
me. The pain would get worse and worse until I died, while now it may
go, or at least be alleviated--Perhaps when he has gone away and I have
not seen him for some time I shall gradually forget him--"
"But he is not going," returned the senora in confusion.
"If he does not go, patience--I will try not to go out, and I shall not
see him."
"But, child of my soul, your misfortune is much greater! Gonzalo is in
love with your sister."
Cecilia turned still paler, her face became livid, and she was silent.
Her mother again kissed her hand with effusion, and then drew her to
her, and covered her face with kisses.
"Forgive me for torturing you like this. Much as you suffer, I suffer
more. Yesterday evening your sister came and told me. Imagine my
distress and grief. My first impulse was to kill her, for I was sure
that she was most to blame. She gave me proof that they have been
carrying on for some time, and showed me letters which made Gonzalo's
faithlessness very clear to me. When I was convinced of his treachery I
said that I would have nobody make a laughing-stock of my daughter, and
Gonzalo should not set foot again in this house, that he was as bad as
she; in short, I said all that came into my head. But this morning, this
morning--I learned something still worse. I learned that your sister has
gone farther than I can, or wish to, say. There is nothing for them but
marriage, and that as soon as possible. Now you know why I have had this
pain, which all but kills me, and would that it did so! Your father and
I are both trapped--our hands are tied. If it were not so I would sooner
be cut into little pieces than consent to this marriage. The infamous
way this man has treated you will make me hate him all my life. Yes, all
my life!" she added in an angry tone.
Cecilia did not answer. She sat with her hands clasped in her lap, her
head hanging on her bosom and her horror-struck eyes fixed on the
ground.
Neither the vehement broken utterances of her mother nor the sobs which
succeeded them made her change her position. She remained thus for some
time, motionless, and white as a statue.
In those large, limpid eyes there at last trembled a tear; it grew, it
moved, then overflowing, it left a wet track upon her wan cheek, and
fell like a drop of fire upon her hand, and there remained. A little
later it evaporated. An angel had gathered it up and taken it to God in
protest for her who had shed it.