WILL SHE DIE.
María awoke to find herself in a large, bare room. Her husband stood in
front of her, alive and tangible. She did not recognize the place, but
she felt that she was in safe hands.
“Whose house is this?” she asked.
“Mine.... Be calm. I am here.--Do you not see me?”
María’s eyes wandered round the walls, and up to the ceiling.
“What a dismal place!” she murmured. “And I--did I come here?”
Then she was silent, trying to collect her confused memories.
The morning after the event which might well be called a catastrophe,
Leon had discussed with the Marquis de Fúcar and Moreno Rubio the best
means of moving María back to Madrid. Don Pedro thought the scheme
dangerous, and the physician had firmly opposed it, saying that, in the
state in which she was, the journey, no matter how carefully managed,
might result in a rapid and fatal collapse. Leon was excessively
annoyed and disappointed; nay, would certainly have carried out his
purpose, if the doctor had not threatened to withdraw, and give up
all further responsibility. As it was impossible to remove her from
Suertebella, though it was the last spot on earth where she ought, or
could wish to be, he thought that the best plan would be to dismantle
the room; and by the permission of his generous host he removed all the
pictures, ornaments, porcelain and bric-a-brac. The room itself was
very unpretending and was only hung with a common paper, so that it now
looked bare enough.
“Yes, you came here,” replied her husband, stroking her hair. “You have
been ill; but you are better now; it will be nothing serious.”
“Ah yes!” said María, struck with a sudden pang of remembrance. “It was
my jealousy, your infidelity that brought me here.--But is this the
house?”
“This is my bedroom.”
“Those walls--that high ceiling.--Why did you not take me home at once?”
“We will go when you have rested a little.”
“What has been the matter?”
“A little over-fatigue; it will lead to nothing serious.”
“I remember--you behaved disgracefully to me. What did I say to you?
Did I say I forgave you? Or did I only dream it?”
“Yes--you forgave me,” said Leon to soothe her.
“You promised you would love no one but me. You swore that you loved
me, and to make me believe it you gave me proofs.... Is it so or did I
dream it?”
“It is quite true.”
“Ah! and you told me you had made up your mind to renounce your
errors, and to believe all that I believe. That was not a dream?”
“No, a reality.--You must compose yourself.”
“And then we made it up--was that it?”
“Just so.”
“And loved each other as we used when we were first married.”
“Yes--just so.”
“And you said I had been deceived as to your connection with....”
María turned her head and fixed her eyes on her husband’s face.
“We will not discuss the past,” he said kindly. “We must make an effort
to restore you to health, and you must help us, María.”
“Help you, what to do?”
“To save you, María.”
“Aye indeed! I must try to save myself! My God! I have sinned....” She
was overcome with grief.
“I am speaking of your life--of your bodily health which is in danger.”
“Oh! I do not care for the health of my body, but for that of my soul
which is in peril.... A little while ago, I do not exactly know how
long, I thought I was dead. Now I am alive; but I think I shall die
soon ... and I am in mortal sin.”
“You dreamt it, my child, it was a dream. Be calm, do not frighten
yourself.”
“In mortal sin,” repeated María putting her hands to her head. “Tell
me did I dream then that you told me...?”
“I?”
“That you did not love me?”
“What could it be, but a dream?”
María threw her arms round her husband’s neck and gently drew his face
down to her own.
“Say it again that I may get rid of the miserable impression of that
horrible dream.” They exchanged a few words in a low voice.
“Then give me a proof of your affection,” said María. “As we are a long
way from Madrid, and as I cannot go out for some days, send a message
for me to Padre Paoletti. I want to talk to him.”
“I will fetch him myself.”
“You yourself?”
“Why not? I don’t mind taking any trouble to gratify you.”
In the course of the day the doctor came. Leon had thought it prudent
to confide to him some of his secrets, for, as María’s attack had been
brought on by mental excitement, it was necessary that the physician
should be aware of the delicate details. Moreno Rubio and Leon Roch
were close friends; their intimacy was founded on sympathies of
character, and on common grounds of scientific views and interests.
That morning, when Leon had disclosed to his friend such facts as were
indispensable to a sure diagnosis, they had a conversation of which
some important fragments may be recorded.
“So that in short you do not care for your wife--neither more nor
less,” said Rubio, who liked to state facts as plainly as possible.
“I have always had a horror of falsehood,” replied Leon. “And I am
bound to confess that María does not inspire me with any affectionate
emotion. I have two feelings when I think of her: one is the deepest
pity; the other is a certain amount of respect.”
“Precisely; but those feelings are not enough to make a good husband;
however, there are others in your soul which might make you--and
assuredly do make you a kind-hearted man. Tell me, do you wish your
wife to live?”
Leon started like a man who has been struck.
“Such a question is an insult. The very disquietude of my conscience
impels me to desire that María should not die.”
“Very good. Then if you wish that María should live,” said Moreno,
laying his hand on his friends’ shoulder, “the first indispensable
thing is to soothe the irritation produced by her jealousy--which,
unfortunately, is but too well-founded; her mind has received a
terrible shock, and it must be allowed to recover its balance. Every
life has, as it were a rhythm, a beat, of its own, to which it goes
on regularly and smoothly. A sudden and complete disturbance of the
measure may result in the gravest consequences, even in death. We have
here an instance in point. We must therefore lay ourselves out to
restore as quickly, and as effectually as possible, the steady measure
that has been disturbed; then we can deal with the frightful blow to
the nervous system which has affected, and may be fatal to the brain.
All these jealousies must be eliminated as quickly as possible, so that
her feelings not being excited, the whole machine may have a chance of
recovering its tone and balance. All the scenes which gave rise to her
attack must by degrees be effaced from her memory. If she lives there
will be time enough to let her know the truth. She must be saved from
any fresh outbreaks of anger or despair by being persuaded that nothing
has occurred; and above all, my dear friend, you must treat her like
a sick child; give her every thing she asks for and indulge all her
whims, particularly as concerns anything that may divert and occupy her
mind. Your wife--I am well aware--will claim your love and devotion: it
is impossible to restrict her in her demands.”
It was after this that Leon raised the question of removing his wife
from Suertebella; but Rubio positively negatived the proposal.
Having abandoned this idea as homicide--that was the word employed by
Moreno--they agreed to dismantle the room, to send to Madrid for the
servants who were in the habit of waiting on María and for various
trifles which would answer the purpose of carrying out the illusion.
Before they parted Leon said to his friend.
“Answer me frankly. Will my wife die?”
“It is impossible to say. It may yet end fatally. You must leave me to
ascertain precisely the kind of trouble with which we have to contend.”
That evening, when María was herself again, after going through her
visions of a hell full of hideous machines and toiling demons, Moreno
came in as was previously mentioned.
“Ha, ha!” he exclaimed, smiling as he found the husband and wife in
such close proximity. “Like two turtle-doves! And how is my patient?--A
good pulse; but we must have rest, absolute rest of body and mind.”
María looked at her husband and frowned.
“No, no. You are not to look so cross at this good man who is as
devoted to you as a newly-married lover. You will see--in a few days
you will be able to go out together to smell the lilacs, and watch the
butterflies. A sensible woman ought never to listen to spiteful gossip.
When people are envious what can they do but talk nonsense? Now, my
dear lady, you are going to be perfectly rational and calm; we are
going to sign a permanent peace and be very fond and loving.... I say
it for you both.... Well, let me see your tongue.”
Then he himself mixed a draught, Leon and Rafaela helping him.
While this was going forward in the sick room the Marquis de Fúcar,
setting aside for a moment the great business of the loan, already
almost concluded, went to join his daughter, and said with a grave face:
“Rubio’s anticipations are very serious. I am afraid we shall have a
terrible calamity under our roof. However, we must not despair; science
can do much, and God can do more. All we can do is to help science
to the best of our little power, and to implore the intervention of
Providence.”
Pepa, raising her anxious eyes to look at her father lifted a face so
pale that it was death-like; and with the desperation of a person who
tears open a wound that it may bleed more freely, she asked:
“Is she dying?”
“That was what I was telling you, and you did not listen,” said Don
Pedro, who was also suffering from a wound. “It is only our duty to
show our unfortunate guest how deeply we sympathise in his misfortune.
We must do something worthy of our house and name. Do not you think
it will be well to perform a religious ceremony that may give due
expression to our desire to see María out of danger? We will do it on
a scale of magnificence. The chapel here stood me in eighty thousand
dollars--though it might have cost less if the artists I employed had
been men of less talent and pretensions.--Well then, to-morrow I will
have a solemn penitential service, which all the servants and people
shall attend, with you at their head. I give you full authority to
spend as much as you think proper in tapers. The worthy priest from
Polvoranca shall celebrate mass, and if you would like to have some
more priests, send to all that are within reach.”
Having thus spoken, he sighed deeply and left her. Was it that, having
a heavy burthen on his own soul, he yearned to petition the favour and
mercy of Heaven on his own behalf? But we do not know what were the
troubles which had so suddenly transformed the marquis’ radiant smiles
into a sour grimace of annoyance. The loan, after crossing the troubled
waters of the Spanish bourse with a fair wind, would this very day
reach the haven of realization; and it was quite certain that Fúcar,
Soligny and a few other birds of the same feather in Paris, Amsterdam,
and London, would haul in a handful of gold for interest, brokerage and
commission. What then...?
The chapel of Suertebella was a handsome edifice, at one angle of
the mansion; high-roofed, thick-walled, and shining as if it had
been varnished. The interior was of stucco, full of imitations of
coloured marbles and porphyry, with a great deal of gilding on bosses
and mouldings, which produced the effect of a lavish display of
livery-buttons and gold cord on the pediments and spandrils. The style
of architecture can only be described as Græco-Chino-Roman--Gothic
gargoyles combined with ornament of the new classical style which
originated at Munich, and which our architects have adopted for the
porticoes of our houses, the pantheons of our cemeteries, the entrances
of our town-halls, and the dining-rooms of our millionaires. The
pseudojasper, gold, and brilliant colours dazzled the eye till they all
seemed to be swimming round and round the dome like fishes in a glass
bowl. The roof was supported by highly respectable angels who, in the
sculptor’s studio, had played the part of seductive nymphs; and the
paintings in the dome represented the cardinal Virtues, who had been
predestined to figure as Muses. Everything blazed with the glaring
splendour which is now fashionable in our private rooms, and which
in them is not out of place. There was not a Christian attribute or
allegory that had not been evolved from the palette or the sculptor’s
mould by the artists employed to decorate this chapel. We shall
presently become acquainted with a ribald jester who, it was said,
was one day giving a farcical, not to say a sacrilegious explanation
of the figures that adorned it: This female figure with bandaged eyes
and a chalice in her hand, represented Spain whom the financiers of
state had blindfolded that she might not see the bitterness of her cup
of ruin; that one, leaning on an anchor, with her eyes disconsolately
turned up to Heaven, was Commerce in despair; and the matron caressing
a whole tribe of children was Beneficence, a pleasing emblem of the
interest taken by the Fúcars in property and labour, and of the tender
solicitude with which they lent them a helping hand to the work-house.
The four Fathers of the Church, all represented as writing very
gravely with “The Eagle’s Quill,” personified the Press, always ready
to sing the praises of wealthy capitalists, who, before acting on
their own account, take advantage of its ready pen. The vessel sinking
in the waves of Tiberias was the State, whose orators and leaders
suffer so much buffeting, while the Multiplication of the Loaves was
obviously prefigurative of the distribution and reception of certain
articles supplied under contract; finally, the stolid Sibyls, sitting
with their hands before them in utter absence of mind, represented
government administration. And the irreverent commentator went on to
give new readings of the texts that were inscribed on the fillets and
architraves for the edification of the faithful: “I am Pedro (Peter)
and on this stone I will build my house. Give unto me that which is
Cæsar’s, and that which is God’s.”
The chapel, the allowance being made for modern taste in ecclesiastical
architecture, was a handsome one. It was on a level with the
ground-floor, and there was a second door to the garden by which the
congregation were admitted. The roof rose higher than that of the
house, displaying its bell-tower somewhat ostentatiously. It was
dedicated to San Luis Gonzaga--whose image--a really fine piece of
sculpture--stood on the high altar beneath a large representation of
Calvary.
The pious ceremony took place, as Don Pedro had arranged. The sun had
scarcely risen when wax tapers innumerable were lighted on the high
altar and in the side chapels, and thousands of delicious flowers,
arranged in jars and vases, added their tribute of beauty and perfume.
The little sanctuary was, to use a vulgar phrase, a blaze of splendour.
The lights and odours inspired a sort of fervour by stimulating the
senses and firing the imagination, so that sight and hearing were
powerfully excited. All the servants on the estate were present, from
the steward to the lowest scullion, and from the head-gardener to the
tiniest stable-boy. The service was celebrated by the priest from
Polvoranca, a humble protégé of the great house; an old man, somewhat
ridiculous in appearance, uniting to the most elaborate ugliness
certain eccentricities and manias which, though they had gone much
against him in his ecclesiastical career, had made him well known in
all the country side. He received from Don Pedro a small salary for
officiating every Sunday for the benefit of the servants and women of
the house, and hearing them confess once a year--a pious formality that
the millionaire kept up, with a view to protecting himself against
peculation and domestic difficulties of various kinds.
Pepa Fúcar attended the service in the gallery communicating with the
interior of the house; and with her, her waiting-maid and Monina, who
could not understand why she was to be so quiet and good, and was on
the point of lifting up her voice with a loud shout at the most solemn
part of the service. Heaven only knows what she might have said if the
nurse had not held her tightly, stopping her mouth, and threatening
her that God would punish her by taking away her tongue. This had the
desired effect, and Monina sat patiently till the end.
Pepa Fúcar knelt on a stool and leaned over the front of the balcony.
Who can guess what was in her mind during that solemn hour, or for
what, in truth, her aching soul petitioned?
The service ended, every one left the chapel, but Pepa remained in
her place without moving from the attitude she had taken up from
the beginning. With her head bent over the cushion and her face
half-hidden in her folded hands she had not breathed a word or a sigh.
When, at last, she looked up and prepared to rise, she gazed fixedly
at the altar without any definite expression on her face; the cushion
was wet with her tears, as though a jug of water had been spilt over
it. She left the chapel and went towards her rooms; she was silent and
grave, her eyes were red, her lips parted as if she must suffocate if
she could not draw a deep breath. At the door of her own room she met
her father.
Don Pedro, though he had not been present in person at the service,
had looked out on to the chapel through a little window in the wall to
the left, which opened from a passage in the house, and was screened
by a figure of St. Luke the Evangelist. From thence Fúcar could note
that all his household were present and that none were missing; he
could admire the magnificence of his private sanctuary--_la cathédrale
pour rire_, as our ribald jester called it--which in his eyes was “a
gem among basilicas” and “full of character.” Indeed, it would have
been difficult to refuse that modicum of praise to the grand Christian
scheme of decoration worked out by one of the chief scene-painters of
the capital.
But we have reason to believe that the good man’s mind rose above this
to a loftier range of ideas. He was deeply troubled that day, and no
doubt, as he put his solemn face out of the opening in such a manner
that it might have been taken for that of an Evangelist or a Father of
the Church, his feelings were reverent and prayerful, and he craved
something of the Creator. Still, this is mere hypothesis and devoid of
foundation; it is put forward here for what it is worth, to fill up the
vacuum which must exist in a total absence of data.
This much, at any rate, is certain. He stopped to say to his daughter:
“Every one was there.”
“And how is she this morning? Do you know?” asked Pepa in a voice so
husky that it sounded as though her lungs, in their scorching thirst
had consumed the air they breathed.
“Be hopeful, my child. The unfortunate woman passed a quieter night,
and she is better, Moreno tells me.”
“So that she will recover....”
“It is very probable....” said Don Pedro, but the indifference of his
tone showed that he was thinking of something else. “Really, my child,
it seems as though God were piling every calamity on us at once!”
As he spoke the poor gentleman could not control his feelings. He held
out his arms to his daughter who threw herself into them, and exclaimed
in a voice choked with agitation: “Child of my heart--my jewel! How
unfortunate you are!”
Pepa shed on her father’s shoulder the few tears she had saved from the
Mass. Don Pedro, commanding himself, said with an effort: “But we must
not exaggerate.--Nothing is positive.--To-morrow....”
Pepa went into her own room and her father retired to his, where,
for the twentieth time, he read and re-read a number of letters and
telegrams which had made a deep impression on a mind usually as bright
and clear as the spring air and sunshine.