PALLIDA MORS.
When the carriage stopped, Don Mariano perceived by the face of the
servant who came to open the door that nothing very delightful had
occurred during his absence.
"The señora?" he asked in alarm.
"The señora is in bed."
"Oh, I might have known it! How could the poor soul have had strength to
resist this blow!"
The faces of the other servants whom they met on the way had the same
expression of silent solemnity, and this greatly increased his
agitation. Maria followed him. When they reached Doña Gertrudis's room,
they saw that there were a number of people in it who, on catching sight
of them, came toward them with a warning gesture.
"What! Is she so ill?" exclaimed the unhappy Don Mariano, in a hoarse,
trembling voice.
"She is not very ill," said an officious lady: "but it is better that
you should not enter so suddenly, for a powerful excitement might be bad
for her. She has had a number of attacks since last night, and finds
herself rather weak.... Let me prepare her."
The lady, in fact, went to tell Doña Gertrudis that her daughter was at
liberty, and would soon be back to Nieva.
"My daughter is here!" cried the invalid, with that wonderful instinct
of mothers and hysterical women.... Yes, she is here!... I know she
is!... I see her.... Come, my daughter, come!"
And at the same time she made a desperate effort to sit up in bed. Maria
entered her bedchamber, and kneeling beside the bed respectfully kissed
the hands which her mother extended to her.
"Forgive me, mamma! forgive me for the anxiety which I caused you....
You were made ill because of me, but the Lord will soon make you
well...."
"No, my daughter; you have done nothing that needs my forgiveness; you
have done what God commanded.... It made me ill ... that is true ... but
it is because I have not virtue enough, as you have, to suffer the
trials God imposes upon us.... You are a saint.... I shall be well....
Don't worry about me.... What frightens me now is, that I did not die
when I saw you marching off that way, among soldiers.... My poor
daughter.... Come, give me a kiss!"
When Maria entered the bedroom, Ricardo and Marta were there; the girl
seated near the pillow, and Ricardo at the foot of the bed. The young
marquis, on learning at the factory that Maria was arrested, had asked
the colonel to be relieved that night of guard duty, and his request
being granted, he hastened to the Elorza mansion just as Don Mariano and
his daughter were outside of the town. Doña Gertrudis was in the midst
of a very severe fit, from which it was feared that she would not
recover; she came to herself but only to fall immediately into another.
What an anxious night! Don Maximo and the Señora de Ciudad remained with
poor little Marta to watch by the sick woman. Ricardo likewise was
unwilling to leave the house. The girl appreciating that her mother's
health and life depended on her behavior, kept up her courage, and did
not cease to busy herself about the bed, entering and leaving the room
hundreds of times. As soon as Don Maximo gave an order she fulfilled it
with admirable exactness. A multitude of remedies requiring much skill
and some practice were taken: mustard poultices, leeches, assafoetida
washes, various applications to the temples, etc., etc. Marta would not
consent for any servant to touch her mother; she did everything herself
without bustle, without noise, as though all her life she had done
nothing else. During the intervals of rest she sat by the bedside and
watched the invalid's face with anxious eyes. The bedroom was feebly
lighted by a lamp half turned down in the hall; a strong smell of drugs
and medicines arose from the vials accumulated on the dressing-table;
but Marta was not nauseated by any of the odors; her head was steady and
her never-failing health was the envy of all the household. Ricardo
likewise sometimes sat at the invalid's feet. The girl scarcely saw more
than his silhouette outlined against the brighter opening of the door,
but this was a great comfort to her. She was not alone; Ricardo was not
a stranger. Sometimes when the invalid asked for something and both
arose in haste to give it to her, if their hands met, Marta withdrew
hers hurriedly, as though she had touched a viper, and she let her
friend minister to Doña Gertrudis. Neither spoke. Marta, forgetful of
herself, thought only of her mother. Ricardo, more egotistical, thought
of Maria. The girl's whole soul was wrapped up in the dear being
painfully breathing by her side, and without making the slightest error,
with the accuracy of a chronometer, she counted her pulse and watched
her respiration. Don Maximo and the Señora de Ciudad were whispering in
the adjoining room, as though they were making confession. The lady was
explaining to the old doctor the character and temperament of each one
of her daughters; the conversation was long. In the course of nine hours
the sick woman had four severe attacks, leaving her so prostrated that
the doctor seriously feared a fatal result. Nevertheless, after the
fourth, she remained comparatively comfortable, and passed the day quite
easily. The danger, in spite of this, continued.
After the first moments of effusion were over, Maria called her sister
aside into a corner of the room.
"Tell me; has mamma made confession?"
"No."
"And why didn't you call the priest?... Didn't you perceive that she was
in danger?"
The truth was, Marta had scarcely thought of doing such a thing.
Besides, she was afraid of frightening her mother, and thought that this
might be bad for her. In the bottom of her heart, likewise, there was a
great terror of that tremendous scene, and she wanted to banish it from
her mind. Maria chided her severely for her negligence, bringing before
her the terrible responsibility which she would have incurred had her
mother died. Marta saw that she was right, and hung her head. She sent
instantly to summon Doña Gertrudis's confessor, and Maria undertook to
prepare her mother. Wonder of wonders! Doña Gertrudis, who during her
life had asked an infinite number of times to have her confessor
summoned, now felt overwhelmed with surprise and fear when her daughter
told her that she must get ready. Possibly the fact was, that when she
had asked for it, she harbored the conviction that there was no real
danger of death, while now she understood that matters were really
serious. At all events, her daughter's words made a great impression
upon her, and she raised all the objection in her power against
receiving him, urging as an excuse that she felt better; that when
there should be danger, she would herself call for him.
Maria opposed this delay, and found herself under the cruel necessity of
clearly explaining to the invalid the seriousness of her situation. Doña
Gertrudis yielded, but her face betrayed a great discouragement.
When the priest arrived he was left alone with her, all retiring from
the apartment. Marta went to weep alone in her room, so as not to sadden
her father; he did the same, so as not to frighten his daughters. Maria
watched at the door for the signal that the pious act was accomplished.
At last the priest left the room, and, with the mask of solemnity which
all daily witnesses of death-scenes are obliged to assume, hiding the
real indifference, logically caused by such familiarity, he said to
those who were waiting:--
"You can enter: we have finished."
"How is she?" was the question of each one.
"Well!... well!... well!... The poor woman is calm.... I believe that
for her to receive the Divine Majesty will be good for her, as well for
the body as for the soul."
"That is true.... You are right, Señor Cura," said several ladies.
"I have seen in my own family a very notable case of the power of
faith," declared one of them. "My uncle Pepe had a very serious lung
trouble, confirmed consumption. He had consulted a multitude of
physicians, and had taken more than a cartload of medicine. Well, then
it was suggested that, unless he were prepared to die, he would not
recover. He had the priest called, made confession, received the
viaticum, and even wanted to have extreme unction.... But from that very
time, I don't know what it was, but it is a fact that he became more
comfortable, and began to improve ... to improve ... to improve, until
at last he became what you see him to-day."
The other women confirmed this opinion. Each one related her experience
in support of it, and the priest summed up all the arguments, showing
that such miraculous effects were nothing more than was to be expected,
granting that the sick person's body received the presence of the Lord
of the Heaven and earth, in whose hands is the safety of all mankind.
At eleven o'clock in the evening, they brought the viaticum to Doña
Gertrudis with all the ceremony required by such a solemn act. The house
of Elorza was filled with strange faces; a throng composed for the most
part of working people invaded the stairway, the corridors, and even the
invalid's sick-room, with wax tapers in their hands. The priest, with
the acolyte before him, and the holy box on his breast, passed by the
physician, and entered the sick-room. Don Mariano had gone to hide
himself. Maria, with a book of devotions in her hand, read to her mother
the prayers which were to be said before communion. Marta stood leaning
against the wall, pale and frightened, gazing at the solemn ceremony, as
though she saw some terrible vision. One of the women, who made their
way into the room, handed her a lighted candle, and she took it without
knowing what she did. When the priest brought forth the Holy Wafer, they
had to tell her to kneel. The scene was sad and stirring for any one:
how much more for a daughter! The wax candles lugubriously sputtered in
the silence of the sick-room, and cast tremulous yellow reflections on
the walls. The voice of the priest, as he raised the Host, was still
more lugubrious than the sputtering of the tapers. The invalid,
weakened by her illness, had grown terribly pale from emotion; she sat
up as well as she could and, supported by Maria, and with her hands
folded over her breast, she opened her mouth to receive the body of
Jesus Christ. Then the bystanders went out softly, and on the staircase
was heard the vibrating tinkle of the sacristan's little bell,
announcing that the Lord was departing from the house. Only the intimate
friends remained. A group of ladies invaded the sick woman's room to
congratulate her, and to ask after her health. Doña Gertrudis said that
she was more comfortable; and, taking her daughter Maria's hand, she
thanked her for having given her the pleasure of communion. Her recovery
was to be hoped for; all the ladies found her very much like herself,
and assured her that it would not be long before she was well.
"God can do all things, Doña Gertrudis. When one's accounts are settled
with the Lord, there is no fear of any harm befalling. Nothing, this is
nothing, señora; you will see how you will soon recover."
"I have offered a mass to the Sacred Christ of Tunis for the day on
which our señora shall get well," said Genoveva, Maria's maid.
"Woman, why did you not offer it to the Ecce Homo of Mercy?" asked an
old laundress of the house, in some surprise. She had always lighted the
lamp before the said Ecce Homo, and kept the chapel clean, so that she
came to look upon it as her own property.
"Ay, woman! because the Holy Christ of Tunis is more miraculous."
"A cuckold on _him_," exclaimed the washerwoman, quickly, with angry
eyes.
A furious altercation arose between the two, until Maria was
scandalized, and bade them be still, explaining that the Christ of
Tunis and of Grace was one and the same Lord, though every Christian was
free to have the most faith in whatever image he pleased.
At last the ladies withdrew, leaving only two,--the widow De Delgado and
one of her sisters,--to spend the night with the young ladies. Don
Maximo went to rest awhile, promising to return before long. The
confessor did not wish to leave the house because he saw no improvement
in his penitent, and he threw himself down on the sofa. Ricardo likewise
remained.
At two o'clock what Don Maximo feared took place. The attack was
renewed, and unfortunately with such violence that the unhappy lady very
narrowly escaped passing away in it. Marta, on seeing the danger,
recovered the activity which she lost before the lugubrious ceremony of
the communion; she prepared all the medicines; she rubbed the sick
woman's feet with a flesh-brush; she held her upright a long time, so
that she might not choke to death, and acted as Don Maximo had
prescribed in the former cases. All those who touched Doña Gertrudis
hurt her; only Martita's soft hands had the privilege of moving her from
side to side, and placing her in the most comfortable positions without
causing her pain. Finally the sick woman came to herself and spoke, but
Don Maximo, hastily summoned by the servants, found her pulse so feeble
on his arrival that he could not help making a slight gesture of alarm.
Marta noticed that gesture, and calling him alone into the passage-way,
she threw her arms around his neck, sobbing: "Don Maximo, my dearest,
for God's sake, save my mother!... yes, my mother is dying!... yes ...
she is dying.... I saw your gesture...."
"Don't cry, child,"[69] said the old physician, drawing her head to his
breast; "as yet there is no reason for alarm.... I will certainly do all
in my power, and more, to save her."
"Yes, yes, Don Maximo.... Do it, I beseech you by all that you most love
in this world!... by the memory of your wife, whom you loved so dearly!"
"Don't! try not to cry any more! the thing to do now is to go and give
her a spoonful of quinine; then we will put a cataplasm on her stomach."
The good Don Maximo, disguising the presentiment which he felt,
succeeded in calming the girl, and he set himself to applying the
remedies which his poor science but rich desire suggested.
But he was not able to halt the swift approach of death which in full
career was fast approaching the noble lady's couch. At four o'clock in
the morning they noticed that she spoke with greater difficulty; her
pronunciation halted, and she often stammered. Almost all her words were
directed to Maria, asking her numberless times about the events of the
preceding night, and insisting on being told, showering boundless praise
on her for her bravery, and congratulating herself on having such a good
daughter.
"My daughter, beseech God for my safety.... God cannot ... deny thee
anything."
"Maria, perceiving that her mother was dying, replied:
"Mamma, the one important thing is the safety of the soul.... If God
wishes to restore you, let it be a miracle to you of his sacred
grace...."
"But ... am I dying ... my daughter?"
"God only can tell.... Do you wish the señor cura to come in and give
you a short confession?"
"Yes ... let him come in ... my daughter, let him come in!"
The priest came, and remained a few moments alone with the sick woman.
Those who were in the adjoining room kept a sad silence. Don Mariano
lying on a sofa, with his cheek resting in one hand, shut his eyes and
gave evidence of deep dejection. After the priest had finished, Marta,
Maria, Ricardo, and Don Maximo returned. Doña Gertrudis's condition grew
continually more critical. There began to be noticeable in her a
restlessness of bad augury; she turned her head from one side to the
other as though she could not find a resting-place, as though she were
already searching for the pillow on which she was to repose eternally.
Her vacillating hands picked up and dropped the bedclothes incessantly,
while her eyes also restlessly rolled in their orbits, fastening, from
time to time, on the ceiling of the room; it seemed as though she found
no one on whom to rest them. Soon Martita noticed that her hands were
cold, and she mentioned the fact aloud, in a simple manner, without
appreciating its unfortunate significance. Don Maximo turned away his
head to hide his emotion; the priest let his fall on his breast.
"I feel ... very well ... now," she said to Maria, raising her
daughter's hand to her lips. "As soon as I ... I am well ... we will go
... to Lourdes ... together ... will we not?... It is very ... pretty
... is it that one?... very pretty ... very pretty.... If you knew ...
what I see now!... The Virgin ... the Virgin coming ... surrounded by
stars.... Put on my ... velvet dress ... to receive her.... Come ...
quick ... quick.... Don't you see ... I am entering by the door?... Ay!
what trials!... Good day, Señora.... I have a daughter ... who much
resembles you.... She has a fair complexion ... and blue eyes ... very
beautiful!... very beautiful!"
A slight hoarseness began to choke the sick woman's throat; the last
words were rather breathed than spoken; it was a dry, sharp huskiness
constantly growing more pronounced. The confessor hearing it made a sign
to Maria, and she quickly took a silver image of Christ hanging on the
wall, and put it in her mother's hand, saying:--
"Mamma, think on the Lord.... Think of what the Divine Saviour suffered
for us."
"I ... am not ... dying," said the invalid.
"Yes, mamma ... yes ... you are dying," replied the young woman with
kindled face, full of fear and anguish, fearing that she was not well
prepared. "Repent of the sins that you have committed!... You do repent,
and ask forgiveness of God for them, don't you?"
"Yes ... yes," murmured the invalid.
"Repeat the creed with me!" said the confessor, assuming a more solemn
tone: "I believe in God the Father Almighty ... maker of heaven ... and
earth...."
Doña Gertrudis repeated the priest's words clumsily, and as though she
were not heeding what she did. She looked at the ceiling with strange
persistence, while the features of her countenance were rapidly
changing; a purple circle was drawn around her eyes, and her nostrils
became strangely pinched. When the priest was done she again began to
address Maria.
"The truth ... is ... that I have ... no hat ... fit to make the journey
... to Lourdes in.... Those that I ... have ... are ... very
old-fashioned.... Do me ... the favor ... to write to Luisa ... and have
her ... send me one ... in the newest style.... You also ... need a
dress.... Attend to it, my daughter ... attend to it."
"Mamma, leave the vanities of the world.... Think on God.... Consider
that you are going to appear very soon in his presence."
"No ... no.... I am not dying."
"Ay, mamma, by the Holy Virgin, I beg you to feel that you are going to
die.... Think on your salvation!"
"I am thinking about it ... yes ... I am thinking about it," said the
invalid mechanically.
The priest began to read from a book the Commendation of the Soul in
Latin. All knelt. Then the dying woman, raising her head a little,
asked:--
"Why are you all kneeling?"
"To recommend you to God, mamma," replied Maria.
And getting up and putting her face near her mother's, she continued in
a whisper:--
"Say with me, mamma: '_My Jesus_....'"
The mother repeated listlessly: "My Jesus."
_"By thy most sacred passion."_
"By thy most sacred ... passion."
_"By the innumerable pains that thou hast suffered."_
"By the in ... numerable ... pains."
"_That thou hast suffered_," repeated Maria.
"That thou hast suffered."
_"Pardon thou my offences."_
"Pardon thou ... my offences."
_"And save my soul."_
"That'll do, that'll do!" said the dying woman, pushing her daughter
away with her trembling hand. "No, I am not dying.... I am well.... Come
here, Martita.... It isn't true ... that I am ... dying ... is it,
daughter?"
"No, mamma," replied the girl, pressing her hands. "You are not dying,
mamita; no.... You must get well soon, and we will go to drive in the
carriage as we used ... now the weather is fine."
"Yes, loveliest, yes.... We will go ... wait ... lift me a little.... I
am uncomfortable in this position."
Marta helped her to sit up; but as she did so her mother's eyes rested
upon her, fixed, motionless, terrible. That look smote the poor girl to
the depths of her heart, and uttering a frightful, piercing cry, she let
her fall back on the pillow. The Señora de Elorza's head relaxed as
though the neck were dislocated, with open mouth and rigid lips; and
still from the pillow her great glassy eyes continued to follow her
daughter with the same fixed and terrifying gaze.
"Mother of my heart!" cried the girl, instantly throwing her arms around
her. "Do not look at me so, for God's sake! Mamita mia, do not look at
me so. Ay! do not look at me so. Ay! how you terrify me!... Mamita!
mamita!... Ay! O God, what is it?"
Don Mariano, who, on hearing the cry, had hurried into the bedchamber
with anxious face, and hair standing on end, tried to draw his daughter
from the corpse.
"Come away! my soul's daughter, now you have no longer a mother!"
"Yes, I have her.... Yes ... here she is.... Mamma! Mamita! You are
here, are you not?... Answer me!... Speak!... Kiss me, for God's sake,
mamita!... Let go of me, papa!... Let go of me!... Now she is going to
kiss me.... Wait a moment, for God's sake!... Let go of me, papa
darling!... Let her kiss me!"
The girl had embraced the dead body of her mother with extraordinary
force, and covered it with eager loud kisses. Don Mariano, terribly
excited, almost beside himself, pulled her away brutally, as though the
welfare of all depended upon wrenching her from that position. Maria,
kneeling in one corner of the room, had lifted her eyes and her hands to
heaven, and was praying for the eternal glory of the departed.
At last they succeeded in dragging Marta away, and took her to another
room. Without intending it at all, they caused her great harm. The
unhappy girl had not sufficiently mastered her grief; by taking her away
they choked the fountain of her tears, and they did not flow again.
Pale, completely altered, with eyes fixed on vacancy, she neither
listened to what was said to her, nor was willing to take what was given
to calm her. She did nothing else but repeat incessantly, in a low,
somewhat hoarse voice:--
"Mamma.... Mamma.... Mamma!"
The priest went to her, and said:--
"My daughter, calm yourself, calm yourself. It is a test which God sends
you that you may show your resignation. Instead of rebelling against His
will, you ought to thank Him for His remembrance of you, showing that He
loves you...."
"Don't say foolish things!" exclaimed the girl, in an angry voice,
casting upon him a look of scorn. "Is that a proof of God's love, that
he has taken away my mother?... Then that's a fine kind of love!... a
fine kind of love ... a fine kind of love!"
Marta kept repeating the expression over and over again for some time,
in a tone of irritation. When she had calmed down a little the priest
said once more,--
"My daughter, you should take example of your sister. She feels her
misfortune as much as you, but she is giving proof of Christian
resignation and fortitude.... She does not rebel: she acknowledges the
working of the Almighty hand, and with her prayers is contributing to
the greater happiness and glory of her who is no more."
Marta saw that the priest was right; she repented of her anger and hung
her head, murmuring,--
"Oh, my sister is a saint!"
"You also can be one, my daughter. The road to perfection is open to all
who wish to follow it...."
The girl received the counsels of the priest and of the others who were
with him, but did not answer a word. She continued in the same way, not
moving a finger, her face pale and distorted, and her eyes fixed. Her
indifference began to cause them anxiety, and they told her father. The
instant Don Mariano entered the room, she felt a shock, and suddenly
jumping up she threw herself into his arms sobbing bitterly. She was
saved.
The friends of the family, by dint of strong pressure, made Don Mariano
and Martita go and rest for a few minutes, while the proper arrangements
were made for laying out the body and for the funeral. Maria remained
praying in her mother's room. The pale rays of the dawn found her still
on her knees, with her face turned to heaven. The wax tapers which she
herself had taken care to place around the deathbed were burning
funereally, their crude yellow beams struggling with the languid light
pouring into the room. No one dared to call her from her devout
meditations; those who penetrated into the dressing-room and saw her in
that attitude, whispered a few words of surprise, and retired silently
with emotion and admiration.
Finally, all the outside people went away, and Maria shut herself in her
room to take the rest which she so much needed, after the cruel series
of changes and the great labors that she had undergone during the last
few hours. At noon the father and his two daughters met in the
dining-room, to begin the melancholy meal which all who have experienced
a family affliction will recall with horror: a meal in which tears
mingle with the food, and sobs fill the long intervals of silence. At
this first meal scarcely any one spoke; no one ventured to lift his eyes
lest they should meet those of the others, and only furtive,
grief-stricken glances were cast at the place left vacant by the being
who had just fled from this world forever. The courses were eaten
mechanically, without appetite, and handkerchiefs were lifted to the
eyes oftener than napkins to the lips; the rattle of the dishes cruelly
wounded their ears, and the rare words exchanged fell from their lips
tremulously and without animation. The spirit protested dumbly against
the brutal necessity imposed upon it by the body, obliging it, by such a
wretched act, to give over the expression of its bitter grief and break
the current of its melancholy thoughts.
They arose from the table in the same silence. Maria shut herself in her
room again. Don Mariano, accompanied by Martita, likewise went to his.
They sat down together on a sofa, with their arms closely clasped about
each other for the larger part of the afternoon; the caresses which they
bestowed upon each other gradually changed their desperate sorrow into a
most tender feeling, melting into tears. They took turns in consoling
each other; the girl declared that her mother in heaven would be on the
watch for them all, and promised to be always good and prudent, and
never to cause her father sorrow; the father pressed her to his heart,
and blessed her mother for having given him such good and beautiful
daughters. When a servant came to tell them of the call of some ladies,
they felt an unspeakable annoyance, a painful impression, as though
they had been wakened from some melancholy sweet sorrow to plunge into
despair again.
Don Mariano suspected the motive of the call. They wanted to distract
their attention, so that they might not notice the noise made by the men
in carrying the body from the house. And, in fact, a group of ladies and
a few gentlemen endeavored, by repeated entreaties, to persuade them to
go to more retired apartments; but their efforts, as far as Don Mariano
was concerned, were in vain; he strenuously urged his friends, in a tone
which gave no chance for reply, to leave him alone as they had done, but
to take Martita with them.
Alone with his grief the Señor de Elorza felt more keenly his loss and
more deeply his misfortune. In youth there is scarcely any loss that is
not reparable; the passions, the feelings are more intense, but at the
same time more transitory. One lives for the future, and through the
darkest and most furious storms there never fails to shine some bright
spot, promising consolation. But at the age which our caballero had
reached hope is no more; the future exists not. Every misfortune
undergone is a new pain, coming to join those that are past, and waiting
for those that are to come: the affections which perish, like the hair
that falls, find no substitute. Don Mariano, with eyes closed and head
sadly bent upon his breast, let his thoughts fly back over all the
events of his long life, and in all of them, whether fortunate or
unlucky, he saw the image of his wife, the inseparable companion of his
manhood. He saw her awakening in his youthful heart a passion at once
tender and ardent: beautiful and pure as an angel, with delicate oval
face and blue eyes, looking at him with love. He remembered perfectly
the few times when he had had lover's quarrels with her, and the little
reason that there had been for almost all of them. Gertrudis had such a
peaceable disposition and such a gentle nature. It always ended in
making her weep. He saw her on the day of his marriage, in her black
satin (she was still in mourning for her father, the Marqués de
Revollar) with which the fairness of her complexion and the gold of her
hair made a dazzling contrast. A distinguished gentleman of Madrid,
present at the wedding, taking him into a corner of the drawing-room,
said to him: "Elorza, you are marrying one of the most beautiful women
of Spain. I tell you so, and I have seen many in my life." The same day
he started on a journey through foreign lands. He remembered, as though
it were but yesterday, the intoxicating, ineffable impression, perhaps
the sweetest and most blissful of his life, that he felt when he
suddenly found himself alone with his beloved, as the coachman whipped
up his horses, and they heard the farewells of the relations and
friends, who sped them from the door of the palace of Revollar. How the
poor little girl blushed when she realized that they were alone, and she
in her lover's power! But he was polite and generous. He merely asked
for one hand, and raised it timidly to his lips. All the enchanting
details of that journey were imprinted on the Señor de Elorza's memory.
Then he remembered the strange sensation of pleasure and surprise which
he felt at the birth of his first child, and the deliciously cruel
impression which his wife made upon him, by keeping him rigorously away
from her during those moments of anguish. But, ay! in a short time poor
Gertrudis became an invalid, and never recovered perfect health. In
spite of this, his love for her had never grown cool; he took the
greatest care of her, endeavoring, by all the means in his power, to
alleviate her sufferings. She appreciated his sacrifices, seeing in him
a Providence who always soothed her by his caresses. Even after many
years had gone by, and when no one at all took any notice of the good
lady's tribulations, still Don Mariano was the one who pitied her most,
though he made believe look upon her attacks with disdain, and she
comprehended it perfectly, and she still reserved for him in her heart
the same privileged place as in her youth. The harmony of generous, warm
sentiments in both, the affection which they had lavished upon their
daughters, the deep esteem which they mutually felt, and the ever vivid
recollection of their passionate loves, had been so woven into life that
neither of them understood it without being side by side. It was the
intimate, perfect, and absolute union ordained by God, such as men
rarely heed.
A melancholy, ominous noise, heard through the walls of his room, caused
him to raise his head, and fix his eyes on space. Yes, there could be no
doubt; they were carrying her away, carrying her away. Don Mariano flung
himself, face down, on the sofa, and hid his face in the cushions to
choke his sobs.
"My wife! wife of my heart!... They are carrying you away ... carrying
you away forever!... Ay! how terrible!"
And the good caballero's tears soaked through the texture of the damask,
and his athletic form shook convulsively because of his sobs. Then he
felt a great curiosity, that terrible curiosity which exerts a
fascination at such moments, and leaves an indelible mark on the memory
of him who has satisfied it. He waited attentively and soon heard the
heavy shuffling of feet, and after a little the funereal, heart-rending
song of the clergy almost under the balconies. Then he got up quickly,
and cautiously lifted one of the curtains. And he saw the coffin, the
black, gilded coffin, borne like a boat above the throng. The sky was
cloudy and gray, leaving the great plaza of Nieva in shadow. The surging
multitude extended to the farthest corners, moving with a slow and
measured tread. And the boat, preceded by a great silver cross between
two lighted candles, was borne away, carrying from him for evermore his
treasure.
He let the curtain drop and once more flung himself on the sofa,
muttering incoherent words. He knew not how long he remained thus. The
light was fading, leaving the room in shadow, and everything was
silent.... Everything except his thoughts, which spoke to him
ceaselessly, and the sobs which broke from his breast.
And thus he remained a long time, a long time. At last he perceived that
the door of his room was softly opening; he turned his head and saw his
daughter Maria. She came and sat silently beside him. But he, as though
having a presentiment of a new sorrow, asked her no question, said
nothing. He merely took her hand and closed his eyes again.
"Papa," said the young woman after a long period of silence, "we have
suffered a fearful misfortune, one of those misfortunes which cause even
the most sceptical to turn their eyes to heaven in search of
consolation. God alone possesses the key to them; He knows their reason,
and is able to turn them into a result advantageous for us. This
misfortune has confirmed me in a resolution which I made some time
since, to consecrate myself to God forever.... I know by a thousand
signs that He calls me, and I should be truly ungrateful if I did not
obey His call.... I am useless in the world.... All its amusements weary
me; thus, then, I make no sacrifice in confining myself in a
convent.... Besides, there I can better pray for you and be more useful
to you than here.... The idea of matrimony, which you have desired for
me, is repugnant to my heart, where fortunately there has sprung up
another and purer love which is immortal.... This resolution ought not
to surprise you.... I believe that you ought not to feel it.... At this
solemn moment in which afflictions weigh down upon you, perhaps it may
be a consolation to you to know that you are going to have a daughter
safeguarded from all deceit, from all disloyalty, who is living happily
in the service of God and praying for you."
Maria had spoken with frequent pauses, as though she expected her father
to interrupt her. But she ended, and still there passed a long period of
silence without his opening his lips. At last the young woman asked him,
timidly,--
"Have you nothing to say to me, papa?"
"Nothing," he replied, without looking at her.
"But do you give me your consent to do as I said?"
"Yes."
"Oh, I knew you would!... You are so good ... and sufficiently
religious.... You are not like other fathers who are blinded, and would
rather their daughters were exposed to the dangers of the world than be
forever servants of the Lord, in the safe precincts of a holy house....
Thanks, papa, thanks.... I was afraid ... it is true, I was afraid that
you would not approve my resolution.... But God has touched your
heart.... Now I will leave you.... Marta is waiting for me.... Adios,
papa!.... Let me kiss you.... Adios!"
And the door opened and shut again softly. The Señor de Elorza remained
motionless in the same position in which his daughter left him, sitting
with his hands clasped and his head bent on his breast.
The room remained in darkness. The noises outside slowly died away. An
immense, keen, cruel grief palpitated in that lonely room, and a pair of
fixed, stupefied, tearless eyes reflected the few rays of light that
still wandered lost in the atmosphere.
How long did he remain so?
Perhaps the little birds that came at dawn to perch on the bars of the
balconies might reply. But the pallor of his cheeks, the livid circles
around his eyes, and the deep wrinkles in his brow, doubtless more
exactly told.