BIDING HER TIME.
AT noon on the same day Jorge and Luiza were conversing together after
breakfast in the dining-room, as on the eve of the departure of the
former for Alemtejo. But they were not now, as then, oppressed by the
torrid heat of summer; the blinds were thrown open to the October
sunshine, and from time to time an autumnal breeze stirred the air. The
light was paler, and on the trees the leaves were beginning to turn
yellow.
“How pleasant it is to be at home again!” said Jorge, settling himself
comfortably in his easy-chair.
He described his journey to Luiza. He had worked like a slave, he said,
and made a good deal of money. He had brought with him notes for an
interesting memoir, and had made many friends among the good people
of Alemtejo. He had done with the sunburnt plains, the journeys on
horseback through the mountains, the inns, and he was at home at last
in his own little house. As on the eve of his journey, he was smoking
his cigarette and caressing his mustache, for he had shaved off his
beard. This was what had most struck Luiza in his appearance when she
first saw him that morning. He had told her in regretful accents that
the heat had made it necessary.
“But how becoming it is to you!” she had answered.
Jorge had brought her as a present half a dozen rare old china plates
with humpbacked mandarins on them, suspended majestically in the blue
atmosphere,--a treasure that he had discovered in the house of some old
ladies in Mertola. Luiza was now arranging them on the shelves of the
sideboard, and standing thus on tiptoe, the train of her morning-gown
trailing behind her, her luxuriant chestnut hair reflecting golden
lights where it caught the sunshine, she appeared to Jorge more
graceful, more irresistibly charming than ever.
“The last time we breakfasted here together was on a Sunday,” he said.
“Do you remember?”
“I remember,” answered Luiza, without turning round, bestowing her
whole attention, apparently, on the plate she was arranging on the
shelf.
“And, by the bye,” said Jorge, suddenly, “did you see your cousin? Did
he pay you a visit?”
The plate slipped from her hand, making a clatter among the glasses.
“Yes,” she answered, after a pause; “he came to see me occasionally;
but he stayed only a short time in Lisbon.” She opened the drawer of
the sideboard and began to count the silver spoons and forks. She
turned round at last, very red, and shaking the dust from her fingers
said, “They are all complete.” And she went and sat down on Jorge’s
knee.
“How becoming it is to you!” she repeated, twisting his mustache.
She gazed at him ardently. When she had thrown herself into his arms
that morning, she felt her heart open to him, and a sudden influx of
affection thrill it with delight. She felt a desire to worship him
unceasingly, to throw her arms about him and clasp him tightly to her
heart, to anticipate his lightest wishes; it was a complex sensation of
infinite sweetness that penetrated to the very depths of her being. She
passed her arm around his neck, and murmured in his ear in caressing
tones,--
“Are you happy? Do you feel comfortable? Tell me.”
Never had he appeared to her so handsome or so worthy to be loved as
now.
“The Senhor Dom Sebastião is here,” said Juliana at the door,
addressing Jorge.
Jorge gave a cry of joy, released himself hastily from Luiza’s arms,
and went out into the hall, exclaiming,--
“Come to my arms, you rascal!”
One morning, a few days afterwards, when Jorge had gone to the
Department, Juliana entered Luiza’s bedroom, and slowly closing the
door behind her, said in a pleasant voice,--
“I should like to say something to the senhora.”
And she went on to say that her room was worse than a pigsty, and that
she could not remain in it any longer; the heat, the insects, the want
of air, and in winter the dampness, were killing her; in short, she
wanted to change her room for the one downstairs in which the trunks
were kept.
This room had a window looking out on the street; it was high and
spacious. In it were kept Jorge’s drawings, his portmanteaus, his old
coats, and the venerable trunks, red, with a yellow border, of his
grandfather’s time.
“I should be in heaven then, Senhora,” she ended.
But where were the trunks to be put? Luiza asked.
“Upstairs in my room;” and she added with a little smile, “Trunks are
not people; they cannot feel.”
Luiza answered, a little confused,--
“Very well, I will see; I will speak to your master about it.”
“I rely upon the senhora.”
But when Luiza told Jorge that afternoon of “that poor creature’s
ambition,” he gave a jump.
“What! to move the trunks? Is she crazy?” he said.
Luiza insisted, however. It had been the “poor creature’s” dream ever
since she had been in the house. No one could have an idea of what the
poor woman’s room was like! The odor was sickening; the rats ran over
her as she lay in bed at night, and the rain came in; she had not slept
in it very long, and her health had already begun to suffer.
“Good heavens! That is like what my grandmother used to relate of the
dungeons of Almeida,” he exclaimed. “Change her room, change her room
at once, child, and send my fine trunks up to the garret.”
When Juliana learned that the favor she asked had been granted, she
said,--
“Ah, Senhora, you give me new life! God will reward you; for my health
is not in a fit condition to sleep in a garret like that.”
At this time she complained frequently of her health. Her complexion
was livid, with a red spot on either cheek; she had days of profound
sadness and nervous excitability; her feet gave her no rest. Ah! she
needed to take a great deal of care of her health, a great deal of
care indeed! Following up her advantage, she requested Luiza two days
afterwards to come and look at the trunk room; and showing her the
floor, in which many of the bricks were wanting,--
“This cannot remain as it is, Senhora,” she said. “I must have a
matting, or it is not worth while to make the change. If I had money, I
would not trouble the senhora; but--”
“Very well, very well; I will see to it,” returned Luiza, resignedly.
And she bought the matting without saying anything to Jorge. But when
it was brought home he asked Luiza what was the meaning of the rolls of
matting in the hall.
She laughed, and placing her hands on his shoulders, “The meaning of it
is that Juliana begged me for a matting,” she said, “because the floor
of her room is almost without bricks. She wanted to pay for it, and let
me deduct it from her wages, which would have been an absurdity.” And
she added, with a compassionate gesture, “After all, they are God’s
creatures, as we are, and not slaves.”
“Bravo! See that the bronzes and mirrors are taken to the senhora’s
room without delay. But what is the meaning of this change? Once you
could not bear to look at her.”
“Poor thing!” said Luiza; “I always knew she was a good woman, and
while I was alone I learned to appreciate her better. I had no one to
talk to, and she was company for me; and when I was sick--”
“What! you were sick?”
“Only for a few days--a cold. As I was saying, she did not leave me
night or day.”
Luiza was afraid that Jorge would speak of her illness to Juliana, and
that the latter, taken unaware, would say she had not been sick. She
therefore called her, towards evening, into her room.
“I have told your master,” she said, reddening as she spoke, “that you
were very attentive to me during an illness I had while he was away.”
Juliana smiled to find herself thus made her mistress’s accomplice,--a
thing which coincided so well with her own designs.
“I understand, Senhora; you may make yourself easy,” she returned.
The following day after breakfast Jorge said graciously to Juliana,--
“I understand you took good care of your mistress while she was ill.”
“I only did my duty,” she answered, bowing, and laying her hand on her
heart.
“Very well, very well,” replied Jorge, putting a half-pound into her
hand as he left the room.
“Things are going on well,” said Juliana to herself. That very week she
complained to Luiza that the clothing put away in her trunk was being
attacked by moths. Everything was getting spoiled. If she had money
herself she would not trouble the mistress. Finally she declared one
morning that she needed a bureau.
Luiza grew hot with anger, and lifting her eyes from her work,--
“You mean a low bureau?” she said.
“If it is all the same to the senhora, I should like one full size,”
returned Juliana.
“But you have very little clothing,” said Luiza, who was beginning to
grow weary of her humiliating position, and was determined to resist
these increasing exactions.
“That is true, Senhora,” replied Juliana; “but I intend to supply the
deficiency now.”
The bureau was bought in secret, and introduced into the house
surreptitiously. What a happy day for Juliana! She was never tired of
inhaling the aroma of the new wood as she passed her trembling hand
caressingly over the varnish. She lined the drawers with tissue-paper,
and set herself to work at once to supply the deficiencies in her
wardrobe. The weeks that followed were bitter ones for Luiza. Juliana
entered her room every morning, full of compliments, and began to set
things in order. Suddenly she would say in a complaining voice,--
“I am so badly off for under-clothing! If the senhora could help me a
little.”
Luiza opened her overflowing drawers, and proceeded to set aside the
oldest articles they contained. She had a great affection for her
under-garments; she had them by the dozen, beautifully marked, with
little perfume-bags lying among them. It grieved her to give any of
them away. Juliana came at last to demand them as her right. She would
simply say of some article, “How pretty! The senhora does not want
this, does she?”
“Take it,” Luiza would say, smiling through pride, that it might not
seem as if she were acting under compulsion.
Every evening Juliana shut herself up in her room, and, seated on her
matting, the candle on a chair beside her, set herself to remove the
marks from the linen, replacing them, while her bosom swelled with
pride, with her own initials, “J. C. T.,”--Juliana Conceiro Tavira.
There was an end to this at last, for, as she said, she had more than
enough under-dosing now.
“If the senhora would help me now with something for the street,” she
next began.
Luiza proceeded to dress her. She gave her a gown of garnet silk, and a
jacket of black cashmere embroidered with soutache braid. Fearful lest
Jorge should recognize them, she effected a transformation in their
appearance; she had the gown dyed a chestnut brown, and with her own
hands she trimmed the jacket with black velvet. She now worked for that
woman! Good Heavens! how was all this to end? she thought.
One day Jorge said with a laugh at the dinner-table, “Juliana looks as
fine as a peacock now. Any one can see that things are prospering with
her.”
Donna Felicidade noticed the same thing in the evening.
“How _chic_!” she exclaimed. “Not even a palace servant is as
fine!”
“Poor creature!” responded Luiza; “those are old things she has made
over for herself.”
Things were in fact prospering with Juliana. She used on her bed only
linen sheets. She asked for a new mattress, and a rug for the foot of
her bed. The little bags that Luiza had used to perfume her clothes
were now used to perfume hers. She had muslin curtains, tied back with
blue silk ribbons, at her window, and on her bureau were two gilded
vases of Vista Alegra. Finally she went out one feast-day with a neatly
arranged chignon instead of her silk net.
Joanna was amazed at all this luxury. She attributed it to the
mistress’s generosity, and she complained that she was forgotten. One
day, when Juliana used for the first time a new parasol, she said with
an air of pique in Luiza’s presence,--
“All for some people; for others nothing.”
“What nonsense!” Luiza said quickly, with a smile; “I am the same
towards every one.”
This gave her food for thought, however. It might be that Joanna
suspected something, that she had heard something from Juliana. On
the following day, to keep her in good-humor, she gave her two silk
handkerchiefs, and afterwards, two thousand _reis_, to buy a dress
with. From this time forth she never refused her permission to go of an
evening to visit her aunt.
Joanna declared on all occasions that the mistress was an angel. In the
neighborhood they began to remark Juliana’s finery. They had heard of
her new gown, and they whispered to one another that Juliana had money
laid by. Senhor Paula said with indignation that there was some mystery
there. Juliana, in order to silence suspicion, thought fit to give some
explanation to Paula and the tobacconist.
“They say I have this, that, and the other,” she said; “it is no such
thing. I have, it is true, some comforts; but remember how I took care
of the aunt, day and night, without a moment’s rest. No matter how much
they may do for me, they can never repay me for that, for I lost my
health on account of it.”
Thus was Juliana’s prosperity explained. The family were grateful to
her, the neighbors said, and treated her as if she were a relative.
As a consequence of this the house of the engineer came to be
regarded by the servants of the neighborhood as a sort of paradise.
It was asserted that the wages were high, with wine at discretion;
that the servants received presents every week, and that they had
chicken-broth daily. They all desired these good things for themselves.
The _inculcadeira_ contributed to extend the fame of the house,
which became at last the subject of a sort of fairy-tale. Jorge, to
his astonishment, received every day letters from people offering
themselves to him as servants,--butlers, cooks, grooms, housekeepers,
coachmen, porters, scullions. They mentioned the wealthy houses in
which they had been employed, and offered to send references.
“Strange!” said Jorge to himself, walking up and down the room. “They
dispute with one another the honor of serving me. One would suppose I
had drawn the grand prize in the lottery.”
But he attached no great importance to the matter. He was very much
occupied in the writing of his memoir, and he left the house every day
at twelve, to return at six laden with rolls of paper and maps, tired,
hungry, and joyous. He related to his guests, one Sunday evening,
laughing, what had taken place.
The counsellor thought it very simple.
“Donna Luiza’s good temper, Jorge,” he said, “her excellent
disposition; a salubrious neighborhood; a peaceful household, without
family disputes. It is natural that servants less favored by fortune
should aspire to so agreeable a position.”
“That is my opinion also,” said Jorge, patting Luiza gayly on the
shoulder.
The house, in effect, began to assume a more cheerful aspect. Juliana
exacted a more abundant table, so that she might have her portion
without scrimping; and, as she was a good cook, she watched the fire,
tasting the various dishes, and teaching Joanna how to make new and
choice ones.
“This Joanna is a prodigy,” said Jorge; “she improves every day.”
Juliana, well lodged, well fed, with fine white under-clothing without
stint, began to find some savor in life; her nature expanded in
the midst of this abundance; and then, judiciously advised by Aunt
Victoria, she performed her duties with zeal and skill. She took care
of Luiza’s gowns as if they were relics; never had Jorge’s collars been
so lustrous. The October sun shone cheerfully into the house, clean and
orderly as a convent. Even the cat grew fatter.
In the midst of all this well-being Luiza suffered in secret. How far
would Juliana’s tyranny extend? How she hated her! She followed her at
times with a glance so vindictive that she almost expected her to turn
around suddenly, as if she had received a stab in the back. And she
saw her, meantime, contented, singing the “Carta Adorada,” sleeping in
a bed as good as hers, strutting about in her clothes, ruling in her
house. Good Heavens! was this just? she asked.
At other times she gave way to her anger, she cursed her fate, she
writhed in her anguish as in the meshes of a net; but, finding no
solution to the problem that tormented her, she fell into a morose
melancholy in which her nature became perverted. She followed with joy
the growing pallor of Juliana’s countenance, and fixed all her hopes
on the aneurism. After all, might it not burst any day? And Jorge,
meanwhile, was never tired of praising this woman!
Life weighed heavy upon her. No sooner did Jorge close the street-door
behind him in the morning than a feeling of melancholy, blended with
an indefinable fear, descended upon her soul like a funereal pall; she
did not dress till four or five o’clock in the afternoon. Clad in a
loose wrapper, her feet thrust into slippers, her hair in disorder, she
wandered listlessly about her room. At times an impulse would suddenly
assail her, to fly secretly from home and hide herself in a convent.
Her nervous excitement would have impelled her to some melodramatic
act, were it not that her love for Jorge retained her with irresistible
power at his side. For she loved him now with ardor. She loved him as
she had never done before with the irresistible impulses of passion.
She was jealous of everything, even of the Department and of the
memoir; she interrupted him continually at his work; she would catch
his hand eagerly in hers, jealous of every glance, of every word; and
his footsteps in the hall made her heart beat, as if they were those of
a lover.
At first the remembrance of Bazilio troubled her enjoyment of
this affection, imbittering every kiss. But little by little this
remembrance faded away, until at last scarcely a trace of it remained.
How happy she might be,--if it were not for that traitress!
Yes, she it was, that traitress Juliana, who was happy! At times
she would glance around her room smiling, as a miser glances at his
treasures; she would unfold and shake out her silk gowns; arrange
her wrappers in a row, contemplating them ecstatically; and, opening
her bureau-drawers, count and recount her under-garments, with the
caressing glance of one well pleased with her possessions. “How many
things the senhora has!” she would murmur, suffocating with joy.
“Ah, now, indeed, I am well off,” she said one day to Aunt Victoria.
“I believe it,” responded the latter. “Though you have not succeeded
in obtaining a _conto de reis_, remember you are indebted to my
advice for some handsome presents. You should make some return for them
besides gratitude,--a fine piece of linen, some handsome jewelry, some
money. Make the most of your opportunities, my dear; make the most of
your opportunities!”
And this was what Juliana resolved to do. Little by little she began
to think she ought now to enjoy life. Since she had so good a bed, why
should she rise so early? With such fine dresses, why should she not
take a walk occasionally? She must make the most of her opportunities.
One very cold morning she remained in bed till nine o’clock, with
the shutters open, and the sunshine falling across the matted floor.
She explained the occurrence coolly to Luiza by saying that she had
overslept herself. Two days afterwards Joanna came to her mistress at
ten o’clock, saying,--
“The Senhora Juliana is still in bed, and everything is yet to be done.”
Luiza was terrified. What! must she endure her neglect of her duties as
she had endured her exactions?
She went to Juliana’s room.
“You are still in bed,” she said.
“I am obeying the doctor’s orders,” replied Juliana, insolently.
And from this day forth she hardly ever rose before it was time to
serve the breakfast. Luiza asked Joanna to take her place; it would be
only for a short time, the poor woman suffered so much! And in order to
make her contented she gave her money to help her to buy a gown.
Juliana then began to go out without asking permission, and when she
came home late for dinner she did not take the trouble to make any
excuse. One day Luiza, seeing her putting on her black gloves in the
hall, could no longer restrain herself.
“Are you going out?” she said.
“Yes, I am going out. Everything is in order,--everything that it is my
duty to see to.”
And she walked away, her heels clicking noisily on the floor.
Juliana was determined to do in future only what her mistress refused
to do.
Joanna began to complain. “The Senhora Juliana all day in the streets,”
she would say, “and I may get along the best way I can.”
“If you were sick you would do as she does,” Luiza said to her the
first time she heard her grumbling. And she gave her a glass of sweet
wine.
Luiza was very much troubled. How was all this going to end? Juliana
neglected her duties more and more every day. In order to go out
earlier, she neglected everything but the most important of her
obligations. Luiza now always put away the china, very often removed
the things from the table, and even went up to the roof at times to
hang the clothes out to dry. One day Jorge came home at about four
o’clock in the afternoon and saw the bed still unmade. Luiza hastened
to say to him that she had sent Juliana to the dressmaker’s. Two days
later it was already past six o’clock when Juliana came home to serve
the dinner.
“She is at the dressmaker’s,” Luiza said this time also.
“Well, if Juliana is here only to go on errands to the dressmaker’s,
we must have another servant to attend to the duties of the house,”
answered Jorge.
These words, coldly uttered, brought tears to Luiza’s eyes, and sent
the color from her face.
Jorge was astonished. What was it? he asked her. What was the matter?
Luiza, instead of answering, burst into a hysterical fit of weeping.
“But what is this? What is the matter, child? Are you angry with me?”
Luiza, choking with sobs, made no reply.
Jorge kissed her again and again, and made her inhale smelling-salts.
Only after some time was she able to say with choking voice,--
“You spoke so harshly to me, and I feel so nervous.”
He laughed, he called her a foolish child, he wiped away her tears;
but he remained thoughtful. He had already noticed in her a certain
inexplicable sadness and dejection, alternating with a sort of nervous
irritability. What did it mean?
In order that Jorge might not observe Juliana’s neglect of her duties
in the future, Luiza began to do herself what Juliana left undone.
Juliana perceived this, and very quietly adopted the plan of leaving
her more and more each day in which to amuse herself. She began by
leaving off dusting, then sweeping, and finally she no longer made the
beds. Donna Felicidade came in one day unexpectedly, and saw Luiza
sweeping the parlor.
“It is all very well for one who has no servant to do that,” she said;
“but for you--”
Juliana had such a quantity of clothes to starch, Luiza replied.
“You should not excuse her from any of her duties; far from thanking
you, she will laugh at you. You are giving her bad habits. She must
learn to put up with her lot.”
Luiza smiled, and said,--
“It is only for this once.”
Her sadness went on increasing. She took refuge in Jorge’s affection as
her sole consolation. At night she could breathe; Juliana was asleep;
she did not see her sour countenance, she was not obliged to praise
her, she was not doing her work for her. Then she was herself,--the
Luiza of former times. She was safe in her own room, her husband beside
her, free! She could live, laugh, talk; she even had an appetite. And
in fact she sometimes took bread and preserves to her room to eat
before going to bed.
All this aroused Jorge’s wonder. “You are another person in the
evening,” he would say to her; and he called her a “night-bird.”
But what an awakening in the morning! Existence then weighed heavy upon
her. She dressed herself with repugnance, entering upon the new day as
on a state of bondage. She lost the hope of recovering her liberty. At
times the thought of confessing everything to Sebastião passed through
her mind like a flash of lightning. But when she saw him, with his
honest glance, embracing Jorge, and going off with him to his study to
smoke, it seemed to her easier to go out into the street and ask money
from the first passer-by than to go to Sebastião and say to him, “I
wrote a man a letter which the servant stole from me.” No! Rather die
with this daily agony, rather scrub the steps, than this. At times she
thought, “But what am I hoping for?” She did not know,--some unforeseen
occurrence, or the death of Juliana. And she went on living, enjoying
as a favor each new day’s exemption from disgrace, and beholding
vaguely in the distance a dark and fathomless abyss into which she
would end by sinking.
At this time Jorge began to complain that his shirts were badly ironed.
Juliana was positively getting spoiled. One day he grew angry, and
crumpling up his shirt, called her, and threw it on the floor at her
feet.
“This sort of thing cannot continue,” he said; “it is disgraceful.”
Juliana grew livid, and fixed on Luiza a glance that burned into her
soul; but she began to make excuses with trembling lips. The starch was
vile, and it must be changed.
No sooner had Jorge gone away than Juliana swept into Luiza’s room like
a whirlwind, closed the door behind her, and began to cry out that the
mistress soiled a heap of clothes, the master a heap of shirts, and
that without assistance she could not do so much work. “Whoever wants
slaves must go to Brazil for them,” she ended. “And I am in no humor to
put up with the ill-temper of your husband, do you understand, Senhora?
If there is so much put upon me to do I must have help.”
Luiza answered simply, “I will help you.”
She attained at last to a state of resignation sombre and silent. She
accepted everything. At the end of the week there was an accumulation
of soiled clothes, and Juliana said that if the mistress would iron
she would starch, otherwise she would not. The day was a fine one, and
Luiza had intended to go out. She laid aside her gown, and without a
word went and took up the iron.
Joanna looked on in amazement.
“Is the senhora going to iron?” she said.
“There is a heap of clothes, and Juliana alone cannot finish them,”
returned her mistress.
She installed herself in the laundry, and was engaged in ironing some
article belonging to Jorge, when Juliana made her appearance, with her
hat on.
“Are you going out?” exclaimed Luiza.
“I came to tell the mistress; it is unavoidable.”
And she began to button her black gloves.
“But who is going to starch the shirts?”
“I am going out,” replied the other, curtly.
“But for Heaven’s sake who is going to starch the shirts?”
“Let the senhora starch them.”
“Infamous wretch!” cried Luiza, throwing the iron on the floor and
rushing out of the room.
Juliana could hear her sobbing in the hall. Terrified, she took off
her hat and gloves. A short time afterwards she heard the street door
close violently. She went to Luiza’s room, and saw the wardrobe in
confusion and the hat-box lying on the floor. Where had she gone? To
lay a complaint before the police? To look for her husband? “A thousand
devils!” thought Juliana. “That is not a temper to be trifled with.”
She hurried back to the laundry, and began to starch the clothes,
repenting of her imprudence, and resolved to be more cautious in
future. If Luiza were driven to commit some folly, she, after all,
would be the loser. She would be obliged to leave the house, to give up
her room, her comforts, her easy situation. The deuce!
Luiza left the house like a madwoman. In the Rua da Escola an empty
coupé was passing; she called it, and giving the driver Leopoldina’s
address, entered it. She must have returned by this time from Oporto,
she thought; she wanted to see her, she did not clearly know why,--do
unbosom herself to her, to ask for some suggestion, some means of
revenging herself. For the desire of shaking off this tyranny was now
less strong than that of avenging so many humiliations. What if she
were to poison her tormentor? It seemed to her that she would feel an
intense delight in witnessing her writhings, her throes of agony, and
at last her death-struggle. She ascended the steps of Leopoldina’s
house, and with feverish hand violently pulled the bell. No sooner had
Justina caught sight of her than she began to call out to her mistress
from the hall,--
“The Senhora Donna Luiza! the Senhora Donna Luiza! Donna Luiza!”
Leopoldina, in a crimson morning-gown with a long train, and her hair
in disorder, hurried to meet her, with open arms.
“Is it you?” she cried. “What miracle has brought you here? I have only
just now got up. Come in, come in. Everything is in confusion, but no
matter.”
She opened the shutters. There was a strong odor of toilet vinegar
perceptible. Justina hastened to empty a jug of dirty water, and to
put out of sight some soiled towels. Some false curls were lying on a
jardinière, and on the floor some burnt ends of cigarettes. Leopoldina
raised the blind, saying,--
“God be praised, my dear, that you honor this house at last with your
presence!”
But when she saw Luiza’s altered countenance and tearful eyes, “What is
this? What is the matter? What has happened?” she exclaimed.
“Something horrible, Leopoldina,” returned Luiza, clasping her hands
together.
The other-closed the door quickly.
“What is it?” she said.
But Luiza continued to cry without answering her. Leopoldina gazed at
her in astonishment.
“Juliana stole some letters from me,” she said at last, between her
sobs. “She demands six hundred thousand reis for them. I am lost! My
life is a martyrdom. I want you to help me,--to try if you can think of
anything. I am almost crazy. It is I who do all the work of the house;
I can bear it no longer.” And her tears flowed afresh.
“And your jewels?”
“They might be worth two hundred thousand reis. And what should I say
to Jorge?”
Leopoldina was silent for a moment; then, glancing around the
apartment, and opening wide her arms, she said,--
“All I possess, my dear, is not worth twenty pounds!”
Luiza, drying her eyes, murmured,--
“What an expiation is mine! My God! What an expiation!”
“What is there in those letters?”
“Horrible things! I was crazy. There is one of mine, and two of his.”
“Of your cousin’s?”
Luiza slowly nodded her head affirmatively.
“And he?”
“I don’t know. He is in France, and he has not answered my letter.”
Luiza then rapidly related the story of the sarcophagus and the box.
“But what an idea of yours! To put a letter like that in such a place!
It was a piece of folly, child!” And Leopoldina paced rapidly up and
down the room. Her eyes, large, black, and full of excitement, seemed
searching space for some remedy, some means of escape out of this
difficulty.
“This is a question of money,” she said at last. Luiza, seated on the
sofa, repeated dejectedly, “Yes, a question of money.”
Leopoldina stopped suddenly before her.
“I know who would give you this money,” she said.
“Who?”
“A man I know.”
Luiza rose, frightened.
“Who is it?”
“Castro.”
“Of the eye-glasses?”
“Of the eye-glasses.”
Luiza turned crimson.
“Oh Leopoldina!” she murmured.
After a pause she added,--
“I know it; he told Mendonça he would. You know they are inseparable.
He said he would give you anything you asked of him. He said so more
than once.”
“How horrible!” exclaimed Luiza, with sudden indignation. “And you
propose such a thing to me?” And she looked at Leopoldina with frowning
brow and flashing eyes. To receive money from a man! She took off her
hat hastily, and with trembling hand threw it on the jardinière, and
began to walk with agitated steps up and down the room.
“I would rather run away, hide myself in a convent, be a servant and
sweep the streets!”
“Don’t get excited, child. What are you thinking? Perhaps he would lend
you the money without interest.”
“Do you think so?”
Leopoldina did not answer, but with bent head began to turn the rings
on her fingers round and round.
“It would be a _conto de reis_,--two; you would be saved, and you
might then be happy.”
Luiza gave a shudder of indignation at these words, perhaps at her own
thoughts!
“It is base and horrible!” she said.
They were both silent.
“Ah, if I were in your place!” said Leopoldina.
“What would you do?”
“Write to Castro, asking him for the money.”
“That is you!” exclaimed Luiza, unable to restrain herself.
Leopoldina blushed through her powder.
Luiza flung her arms around her neck.
“Forgive me; I am beside myself; I don’t know what I am saying!” she
murmured.
They both began to cry hysterically.
“You have wounded me!” said Leopoldina, sobbing. “I said it for your
good, because I thought it the best thing you could do. If I had the
money I would give it to you,--believe me.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Who is there?” asked Leopoldina.
“I,” answered a hoarse voice.
“It is my husband. That animal has not left the house to-day. I cannot
open now,” she said at the door. “Come back by-and-by.”
Luiza dried her eyes and took up her hat.
“When will you come again?” Leopoldina asked her.
“As soon as I can; if I cannot come I will write.”
“Very well. Meanwhile I will think what can be done.”
Luiza caught her by the arm.
“Of this--not a word!”
Luiza left the house, and walked slowly towards S. Roque. The door
of the Church of the Misericordia was open, the embroidered banner
fluttering in the doorway, gently stirred by the breeze. She felt
impelled to enter, she knew not why; but it seemed to her that the
coolness of the church would calm her agitated spirit. She felt so
unhappy that she remembered God. She felt the need of something strong
and powerful in which to take refuge; she knelt down at the foot of
the altar, crossed herself, and recited a Pater Noster and an Ave
Maria. But those prayers of her childhood afforded her no consolation;
they were like soulless sounds that mounted no nearer to Heaven
than did the agitated breath that framed them; she did not clearly
understand their meaning; they had no application to her case. God
could never guess by them what she asked of him, prostrate here in
her anguish. She wanted to speak to God, to open her whole heart to
him, but in what language? With words such as she used in speaking to
Leopoldina? Would her prayers ascend so high that they would reach him?
Was he so near that he could hear her? She remained kneeling, her arms
powerless, her hands clasped, gazing, by the light of the yellow wax
candles, at the tarnished embroideries, and the round and rosy face of
an Infant Jesus.
Slowly, like rings of smoke floating upward in the atmosphere, her
thoughts began to revolve around the time, now so far away, in which,
through a feeling of sadness or of sentimentality, she used to visit
the churches with frequency. Her mother was still living, and she, her
heart heavy within her--when Bazilio had written to her, breaking the
tie that bound them--sought to transmute her sadness into the ecstasy
of devotion. A friend of hers, Joanna Silveira, had gone about this
time to France, to take the veil; at times she longed to do so too, to
become a sister of charity, to raise up the wounded on the field of
battle, or to pass her life in the mystical and untroubled peace of a
convent cell. What a difference between that life and her present one,
so troubled by anger, so weighed down by sin!
A sacristan, passing by, coughed harshly, and as the young birds in the
nest cease their chirping at a sudden noise, so were these voices from
the past now silent within her. She sighed, rose slowly to her feet,
and went sorrowfully homeward.
Juliana, who opened the door, said to her in the hall, in a
supplicating voice,--
“Forgive me, Senhora; I was crazy; my head was light from not having
slept during the whole night. I am very sorry.”
Luiza went directly to the parlor, without answering. Sebastião, who
was to dine with them, was playing the serenade of “Don Giovanni.” When
he saw her he exclaimed,--
“What makes you so pale?”
“I am only a little tired, Sebastião,” she answered. “I have just come
home from church.”
Jorge was at that moment coming out of his study with some papers in
his hand.
“From church!” he repeated. “What folly!”