A DEPARTING SOUL.
A few weeks after this excursion, Dona Carmen's disease suddenly grew
much worse. The physicians, indeed, had no doubt that her end was
drawing near. She was in a state of complete prostration. Her face was
so thin, that there seemed to be nothing left but the skin, and the
large, sad, kind eyes, which rested with strange intensity on all who
came near her, as if trying to read in theirs the terrible secret of
death. And in view of her death, a thousand sordid feelings surged up in
the minds of those who ought most to have sorrowed over it. Salabert
reflected with indignation on the inheritance which was to pass to his
daughter. He made fresh efforts to induce his wife to revoke her will,
but without success. For the first time in her life, Dona Carmen showed
great firmness of character. Though she was incapable of a revengeful
sentiment, she perhaps felt bound by her desire to close her existence
by an act of justice. A life of abject submission, during which she had
never opposed the smallest obstacle to her husband's will, to his
money-making schemes, or his illicit passions, had surely earned her the
privilege of asserting her rights on her death-bed, and gratifying the
impulses of her heart.
Osorio kept silent watch, with concealed greed, over the progress of her
malady, looking to its termination as the end of his own difficulties.
Dona Carmen would be released from her earthly husk, and he from his
creditors. Clementina herself, the object of the tender soul's devoted
affection, could not help rejoicing over the prospect of so many
millions which were to drop into her hands. She did her best to silence
her desires, and subdue her impatience; but, in spite of herself, a
tempting fiend made her heart give a little leap of gladness, every time
the anticipation flashed through her brain.
It was with infernal astuteness that Salabert set to work to infuse
distrust into his wife's mind. Sometimes by insinuation, and sometimes
by brutally broad hints, he poured the poison of suspicion into her
soul. Clementina and Osorio were looking for her death, as for flowers
in May. What airs they would give themselves when they had paid all
their debts! And then they would live and enjoy themselves on her money.
The poor woman said nothing, indignant at these base innuendoes. But,
nevertheless, in her soul, broken and saddened by suffering, the keen
point of this envenomed dart festered deeply, though she strove to
conceal her anguish. Every time Clementina came to see her--and towards
the end this was twice a day--her stepmother's eyes would rest on hers
in mute interrogation, trying to read in them the thoughts in the brain
behind. This intent gaze embarrassed the younger woman, making her feel
a perturbation, which, though slight, occasionally betrayed itself.
As her malady increased, this anxiety on Dona Carmen's part became
almost a mania. In the isolation of soul in which she lived, Clementina
represented the one link of affection which bound her to life. It was
because her stepdaughter had always been cold and haughty to every one
else, that she had never doubted the sincerity of her love for her, and
it had made her happy and proud. It had sufficed to indemnify her for
the scornful indifference with which every one else had treated her.
Now, the horrible doubt which had been forced upon her, filled her heart
with bitterness. Such a spirit of goodness and love as her own craved to
believe in goodness and love. The uprooting of this last belief made her
heart bleed with anguish.
One evening they were alone together; Dona Carmen, motionless in her
deep arm-chair, with her head thrown back on the pillows, was listening
to Clementina, who was reading aloud the pious history of the apparition
of the Virgin of la Salette. Her thoughts wandered from the narrative;
they were disturbed as usual by the fatal doubt, which tortured her more
than even her acute physical sufferings. She could not take her eyes off
Clementina's fair head, with the fixed look of divination peculiar to
dying persons, as though she could read what was passing within, but
without gaining the certainty she longed for. More than once, when the
reader glanced up, she met that dull, grief-stricken gaze, and hastily
looked down again with a sudden sense of uneasiness. A desire, a whim,
had blazed up in the sick woman's mind, a feverish yearning such as
dying creatures feel. She longed to hear her stepdaughter quench, by
some gentle word, the fearful pain of that burning doubt. Again and
again the question hovered on her lips; invincible shame kept her from
uttering it.
"Lay down the book, child, you are tired," she said at last. And her
voice came trembling from her throat, as though she had said something
very serious.
"You are, perhaps, of listening. I am not. I have a strong throat."
"God preserve it to you, my child," replied Dona Carmen tenderly, as she
looked at her.
There was a brief silence.
"Do you know what I have been told?" she asked finally, with an effort,
and her voice was so low that the last syllables were scarcely audible.
Clementina, who was about to read again, raised her head. The few drops
of blood left in Dona Carmen's emaciated body suddenly rushed to her
face and tinged it with a faint flush.
"I was told--that you wish for my death."
Clementina's rich blood now mounted in a tide to her cheeks and dyed
them crimson. The two women looked at each other for a moment in
confusion. At last it was the younger who exclaimed, with a dark frown:
"I know who told you that!"
And as she spoke the blood faded from her face again like a sudden fall
of the tide. Her stepmother's retreated to her weary heart. She bent her
head with its white hairs, and said:
"If you know, do not utter his name."
"Why not?" cried her wrathful stepdaughter. "When a father, with no
motive whatever, solely for the sake of a few dollars, can insult his
daughter and make a martyr of his wife, he has no right to claim either
affection or respect. I say it, and I do not care who hears me. It is an
infamous calumny! My father is a man who knows no God, no love but
money. I knew that your will had alienated his love for me--if indeed he
ever had any."
"Oh!"
"Yes, I knew it perfectly. But I never could have believed that it would
lead him to do anything so vile as to calumniate me so cruelly. I
confess to you that I have always loved you the most--oh, yes, much,
much the most! I have no hesitation in saying so. Nay, I will say more:
I have never really loved any one but you and my children. If this will
is the cause of your doubting my love for you, destroy it, undo it,
revoke it. Your love and your peace of mind are far dearer to me than
your money."
Her voice thrilled with indignation. Her eyes were sternly fixed on
vacancy, as though she could evoke the figure of her father and crush
him to powder. At the moment she was ardently sincere. Dona Carmen's dim
eyes grew bright with contentment as her daughter spoke. At last they
glittered through tears as she exclaimed:
"I trust you, my child--I believe you! Ah, you cannot think what good
you have done me!"
She seized her hands and kissed them fondly. Clementina exclaimed, as if
ashamed:
"No, no, mamma! It is I who----" And she threw her arms round her neck.
They held each other in a warm embrace, shedding silent tears. It was
one of the few occasions in her life when Clementina wept from tender
feeling, and not from vexation of spirit.
But during the remaining days, though the memory of this scene was
lively with them both, so, too, was that of the suspicion which had led
to it. Clementina felt herself humbled in her stepmother's presence. Her
attentions and endearments were now and then a little forced; she tried
to efface the impression she still read in Dona Carmen's eyes. Then,
again, fearing this might lead her to doubt her sincerity, she would
suddenly cut them short, and assume a cold indifference. In short, a
current of disquietude flowed between the two women, and caused them
both much suffering, though in different ways, whenever they were
together.
At last Dona Carmen took to her bed, never again to rise. Clementina
spent the whole day by her side. The terrible end was near. One morning,
between two and three, two of the Duke's servants gave the alarm to the
Osorios. The Duchess was dying, and asked repeatedly for her daughter.
Clementina hastily dressed and flew to the Requena Palace as fast as her
horses could carry her. Osorio went with her. As they alighted they met
the Duke, with an expression of scornful gloom.
"You are in time--oh, you are in time!" he growled, and he turned away
without another word.
Clementina fancied the words were spoken with a malevolent sneer, and
bit her lips with rage. The pitiable scene that met her eyes as she
approached Dona Carmen's bedside pacified her for the moment. The poor
woman's face was stamped by the hand of death; pale as a corpse, the
nose pinched and white, the eyes glassy and sunk in a livid circle.
Standing by her side was a priest, exhorting her to repentance. Of what?
Her faithful maid, Marcella, stood at the foot of the bed crying
bitterly, her face hidden in her handkerchief; and two other maids in
the background looked on at the pathetic picture, frightened rather
than sorrowful. The physician was writing a prescription at a table in
the corner.
On seeing her daughter the Duchess turned to look in her face with an
anxious expression, and held out a hand to her.
"Come close, child," she said, in a fairly strong voice. And she took
Clementina's right hand in her own thin, waxen hands, and said, with a
fearful fixity of gaze:
"I am dying, my child, dying. Do you not see it? Only so long as you are
not glad of it."
"Mamma, dear mamma!"
"Say that you are not glad," she earnestly insisted, without ceasing to
look in her daughter's eyes.
"Mamma, mamma, for God's sake!" cried Clementina, both bewildered and
alarmed.
"Say that you are not glad!" she repeated, with increased energy, even
raising her head with a great effort, and looking sternly at her.
"No, my beloved mother, no. If I could save your life at the cost of my
own I swear to you I would do so."
The dying woman's dim eyes softened; she laid her head on the pillow,
and, after a short silence, she said, in a weak, quavering voice:
"You would be very ungrateful--very ungrateful. Your poor mother has
loved you dearly. Kiss me, do not cry. I am not sorry to leave this
world. What hurt me was the thought that you, child of my
heart--you--oh, horrible to think of! How it has tortured me!"
The priest here interposed, desiring her to turn her mind from worldly
thoughts. The sick woman listened with humility, and devoutly echoed the
prayers he spoke in a loud voice. The doctor and the Duke came close to
the bed, but, seeing that Dona Carmen was breathing her last, the
physician took Requena by the arm to lead him out of the room. Dona
Carmen's glazing eye wandered round the little group till it rested on
Clementina, to whom she signed to come closer.
"God bless you, my child," she said, with a gaze fixed on the ceiling.
"You are right to be glad at my death."
"Mamma, mamma, what are you saying?" cried Clementina, in horror.
"I am glad, too, glad that my death should be an advantage to you. If I
could have given you all while I lived, I would have done it. It is sad,
is it not, that I should have to die to make you happy? I should have
liked to see you happy. Good-by; good-by. Think sometimes of your poor
mamma."
"Mother, dearest mother!" sobbed the younger woman, dropping on her
knees with a burst of tears. "I do not want you to die, no, no. I have
been very wicked, but I have always loved you, have always respected
you."
"Do not be foolish," said the dying woman, smiling with an effort, and
laying her hand on the fair head. "I am not sorry if you are glad. And
what does it matter? I die content to know that you will owe some
happiness to me. Remember my old women in the asylum, be kind to them,
and to Marcella, my good Marcella. Farewell, all of you. Forgive me any
faults----"
Her voice failed, her breathing was hard and painful. The sobs of
Clementina and Marcella were the only other sound. The Duke, trembling
and shocked, was at last persuaded to leave the room.
Dona Carmen spoke no more. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, she lay
quite still. Now and then she half raised her eyelids and looked fondly
at her step-daughter who remained kneeling. The priest read on in a
quavering nasal voice prayer after prayer.
Thus died the Duchess de Requena. Let her depart in peace.
* * * * *
For some days after, Clementina and her husband, in spite of their
inextinguishable aversion, held long and repeated conferences. The great
question of the inheritance united their interests for a while.
Clementina went every morning and evening to see her father, and Osorio
too was a frequent visitor; they both were lavish of attentions to the
old man, took pity on his loneliness, and made much of him. There was an
affectionate familiarity in their demeanour which was highly becoming in
a son and daughter who make it their duty to cherish a venerable parent
in his old age. The Duke, on his part, accepted their care, watching
them with an expression which was ironical rather than grateful. When
their backs were turned to leave him, he gazed after them, slowly
closing his eyes, and turned his cigar-stump between his teeth, while
his lips sketched a sarcastic smile, which did not die away for some few
seconds.
But everything went on as before. Although the Duchess's will was
incontrovertible, Salabert never said a word on money matters. He
continued to manage the whole of the fortune, and engaged in various
concerns with calm despotism. But his daughter and son-in-law were not
so calm. They began, on the contrary, to be greatly disturbed, to
express their opinions to each other with crude vehemence, and to lay
plots to provoke an explanation. Clementina thought that Osorio should
speak to her father. He considered it her part to apply to him in
dutiful terms for an explanation, before formulating a complaint. After
some days of hesitation the wife finally made up her mind to say a few
words to her father, though not without some embarrassment, since she
knew his temper and her own too.
"Well, papa," said she, with affected lightness, finding him alone in
his room, "when are you going to talk over money matters with me?"
"Money matters? Why should I?" he replied in a tone of surprise, and
looking at her with such an air of innocence that she longed to slap his
face.
"Why should you? Because it will have to be done, to put me in
possession of my property. Am I not mamma's sole legatee?" she answered
in the same cheerful tone, but there was a very perceptible quaver in
her voice.
"Ah, to be sure!" exclaimed the Duke, with a flourish of the hand to
dismiss the subject. "We will talk of that later--much later."
Clementina turned pale. Her blood seemed to curdle with rage. Her lips
quivered, and she was on the point of saying something violent.
"Still, it would be as well that we should come to an understanding,"
she murmured in a low voice.
"Not at all, not at all. I cannot discuss it now. When I have time and
am in the humour I will think about it."
He spoke with such decision and indifference that his daughter had no
choice but either to give the reins to her tongue and quarrel violently
with her father, or to go. After a moment's hesitation she went. She
turned on her heel, and, without a word of leave-taking, she quitted the
room and went off in her carriage, in such a state of excitement that
she was trembling from head to foot.
As soon as she reached home she shut herself up in her own room and gave
vent to her fury. She wept, she stamped, she tore her clothes, and broke
various articles of crockery. Osorio too flew into a rage, and declared
he would bring Salabert to book. But nothing came of it all, excepting a
letter, in which respectfully enough, he required his father-in-law to
give him an account of the state of his business, that the preliminaries
of an estimate might be arrived at. Salabert simply did not answer. They
wrote another; again no reply. They ceased going to the house.
Clementina would not go for fear of a scandal. Osorio, on his part,
considering the relations that subsisted between him and his wife, did
not feel that he had the moral position which would entitle him to lay
formal claim to her fortune.
In this predicament they consulted certain persons of weight, friends of
the Duke, and requested them to mediate. This was done; they had various
interviews with the old man, and after much consultation a friendly
meeting was agreed on, to avoid bringing the matter into a court of law.
The meeting was held, after some objections on Clementina's part, at
her father's house. Besides the interested parties, there were present
Father Ortega, the Conde de Cotorraso, Calderon, and Jimenez Arbos.
The proceedings were opened by Arbos--no longer in the Ministry, but a
member of the Opposition--who made a speech in a conciliatory key,
urging them to agree rather than present to the public the spectacle of
a quarrel on money matters between a father and daughter--a spectacle
which, in view of the position they held, must be both painful and
discreditable. The next to speak was Father Ortega, who, in the unctuous
and persuasive accents which characterised him, first bestowed on both
parties a plentiful lather of preposterous encomiums, and then appealed
to their Christian feelings, representing how bad an example they would
set, and painting the sweets of loving-kindness and self-sacrifice,
ending by promises of eternal life and glory.
Clementina replied. She had no wish but to continue in the same friendly
relations with her father as had hitherto subsisted, and to achieve that
end she was prepared to do all in her power. The curt, dry tone in which
she spoke, and the scowl which accompanied her words, gave no strong
evidence of sincerity. However, the Duke seemed greatly moved.
"Arbos," he began, "Father, my friends, and my children; you all know me
well. To me, without domestic life, there is no possibility of
happiness. After the terrible blow I have so lately suffered, my
daughter is all that is left to me. On her centre all my hopes, my
affections, and my pride. For her I have toiled, have struggled
indefatigably, have accumulated the capital I possess. I may say that I
have never cared for money but for the sake of my wife, now in glory,
and my daughter--to see them living in comfort and luxury. As you know,
I could always have lived on a few coppers a day. And now that I am old,
all the more so. What can I want with millions? Ere long, I too must
take the train for the other side--Eh, Julian? And you too.--Who then
can suppose that I should ever quarrel over a handful of dollars with
my dear and only daughter? The whole thing has been a mistake. I wanted
time to put my affairs in order; that was all. And if you, my child,
ever could imagine anything else, I can only tell you this: everything
in this house is yours, and always has been. Take it whenever you
choose. Take it, my child, take it. I can do with nothing."
As he pronounced the last words with visible emotion, they all were able
to shed a tear. Every one was deeply moved and eager with conciliatory
exhortation. Father Ortega gently pushed Clementina into her father's
arms; and though she was the least agitated of the party, she allowed
him to embrace her.
He clasped her to his heart for some minutes, and when he released her
dropped into his arm-chair, with his handkerchief to his eyes, quite
overcome by so much emotion.
After so pathetic a scene no one could allude to money. The meeting
broke up with fervid hand-pressing and warm mutual congratulations on
the happy issue of their diplomacy. But Osorio and his wife got into
their carriage, grave and sullen, and exchanged not a single word on the
drive home. Only as they reached their own door, Clementina said:
"Well, we shall see how the farce ends."
Osorio shrugged his shoulders.
"We have seen the end, I suspect."
And he was right.
The Duke never paid them a cent., and never again spoke of his
daughter's fortune. He was very affectionate, and constantly had them to
dine with him, complaining of his loneliness. Now and then he spoke of
transactions he was engaged in, but not a word of paying them their
share. Clementina was at last so much provoked that she suddenly ceased
going to the house. They then took to exchanging notes. Nothing was to
be got out of her father but ambiguous replies and vague hopes. Finally
they decided on taking legal steps, and a lawsuit began, which was a
source of endless satisfaction to the faculty.
This was an end of all joy or comfort for Clementina. She lived in a
state of perpetual ferment, watching the progress of the litigation with
anxious interest, communicating with the lawyers, and trying to exert
some influence which might counterbalance the Duke's. He, on his part,
took the matter much more calmly, conducted it with maddening acumen,
taking advantage of her displays of violence to represent her in the
eyes of the world as a greedy and unnatural daughter. At the same time,
among his intimate acquaintances, he would now and then give utterance
to some sarcastic or cynical speech which, when it reached her ears,
made her wild with rage. The struggle became more desperate every day,
while, on the other hand, Osorio's creditors, deceived in their hopes,
began to press him very hard, and threatened to bring him to ruin. The
torments, the tempers, the wretched state of things in the Osorio
household may be easily imagined.
This discomfort, and it might be called misery, extended to the hapless
Raimundo. Clementina, torn soul and body by a tumult of other passions,
found no leisure for the blandishments of love. The minutes she could
spare for them were every day briefer and less calm. The gay
_tete-a-tetes_ and merry devices of a former time were over for ever.
The lady no longer found any amusement in laughing at her boyish lover.
She did not seem even to remember the childish pleasures in which they
had delighted. She could talk of nothing now but the lawsuit. Her nerves
were in such a state of tension that an inadvertent word might put her
into a furious rage. And, besides all this, in her vehement desire for
triumph over her father, she flirted more than ever with Escosura, who
had just come into office; and this, as may be supposed, was what most
distressed the young naturalist.
One day, when she was rather more fond than usual, she said in loving
accents:
"You are still jealous of Escosura, Raimundo? But it is quite a mistake.
I do not care a straw for the man."
"Yes, so you have often told me, and yet----"
"There is no 'and yet' in the case, fastidious youth!" she interrupted,
gently pulling his ear. "I never loved, and never could love any one but
you. But--here comes the but--you alas! are not in power, though you
deserve to be more than any one I know. My fortune, as you know, is at
the mercy of the law, and I may be told any day that I am a beggar.
Accustomed as I am to comfort and luxury, you may imagine how much I
should relish this. And my pride, too, would suffer, for I am the object
of much invidious feeling; people hate me without knowing why. In short,
I should be laughed at, and that I could not endure. My father has a
great many supporters. Men count on him for services, though he is
utterly incapable of a kindness, and they are afraid of him too. Now I,
though on intimate terms with all the official circle of Madrid, have
not one true friend to take a real interest in my affairs, or dare to
show a bold front to my father. And so, you see, I must try to make one.
Now imagine this friend to be Escosura, and imagine me to break with you
before the eyes of the world, though still you are the one and only man
I can ever love. What do you think of the arrangement? Can you regard it
as acceptable?"
Raimundo coloured crimson at this strange and humiliating proposition.
For a minute or two he made no reply, but at last he said, between anger
and contempt:
"It strikes me as simply infamous and indecent."
The furrow, the fateful furrow, which appeared on Clementina's brow
whenever passion stirred her stormy soul, was ominously deep. She
abruptly rose, and after looking at him hard, with an expression of
scornful rage, she said in icy tones:
"You are right. Such an arrangement could not meet your views! We had
better part, once for all." And she turned to go.
Raimundo was confounded.
"Clementina!" he cried as she reached the door.
"What is it?" said she, as coldly as before, and looking round.
"Listen, one moment, for God's sake! I spoke under an impulse of
jealousy, not meaning to wound you. How could I ever mean to hurt you
when I love you, adore you as a creature of another sphere?" and he
poured out words of tenderness and worship.
Clementina listened without moving from her attitude of haughty
indifference, and would not melt till she saw him utterly humbled, on
his knees before her, beseeching for the scheme he had stigmatised as
infamous and indecent as a favour to himself.
At this time Clementina received a blow which almost made her ill. Her
father brought the audacious woman to whom he had given a card for his
ball to live in the palace, and this extraordinary proceeding became the
talk of all Madrid. Every one believed that Salabert was out of his
mind. And then a rumour got afloat that he was about to marry Amparo,
and amazement and indignation filled the soul of Society.
But an unforeseen accident interfered with this alliance. At a meeting
of the shareholders of the Riosa mines it was the Duke's part, as
chairman, to give an account of his management, and propose certain
measures for the advantage of the company. He usually fulfilled such
functions with great brevity and lucidity; he was, above all else, a man
of business, and had no fancy for rambling speeches or more words than
were absolutely necessary. But now, to the surprise of his audience,
among whom there were many bankers and official personages, he began a
rambling address quite foreign to the matter.
He wandered from his subject and began giving explanations of his
conduct as a public character, sketched a complete biography of himself,
dwelling on a thousand insignificant details; sang his own praises in
the most barefaced way, putting himself forward as the model of a
logical politician, and of disinterested self-sacrifice; spoke of his
services to the nation by his loans to the Government in the hour of
need, and to the cause of humanity by his co-operation in the founding
of hospitals, schools, and asylums; finally having the audacity to
assert that the Home for Old Women was his work.
The shareholders looked at one another in bewilderment, muttering not
very complimentary comments on the orator's condition of mind. When he
had finished the catalogue of his own merits and proclaimed himself,
_urbi et orbi_, the greatest man in Spain, he began an invective against
his enemies, describing himself as the victim of persistent and
deliberate persecution, of a thousand intrigues plotted to discredit
him, and in which various political and financial magnates were
implicated. In confirmation of this statement he read, in loud, fierce
tones, certain articles from a paper published in the district where the
Riosa mines were situated, and which, according to him, constituted a
gross and shameful attack. What they actually said amounted to this:
That Salabert was not a man of such mark as to be worthy to have a
statue.
His hearers, more and more wearied and indignant, now said, though still
in under-tone: "The man is crazy! The man is mad!"
As he read on, his face grew purple; it was usually pale, it now looked
as if he were being strangled. Suddenly, before he had finished, he fell
back senseless in his chair.