Cristina was sitting down, her face hidden in her hands. I went up to
her.
"Forgive me for coming in here. I was not master of myself."
"You did exactly right; thank you," she murmured, without changing her
position.
We remained silent. Presently, rising abruptly, she exclaimed:
"Come, let us go in! let us go in!"
And emerging from the glorieta, she went hastily towards the house. I
followed her, and catching up with her, suggested the propriety of not
presenting herself in such a disturbed state to Emilio.
She did not reply to me, but she changed her direction, and turned her
steps towards a narrow acacia path, where the light of the moon could
scarcely penetrate. I soon lost sight of her. I paused a moment,
debating whether to go on to the house or follow her. I decided upon the
last, because I was afraid she might stumble anew upon Castell.
I followed the path, and saw her as she came out in front of the little
pavilion that bore her name. I joined her and advised her to rest there
a moment.
The salon, profusely adorned with statues and vases, offered at this
hour a mysterious enchantment. The moon shone through the crystalline
windows. The polished furniture, the porcelains, the pictures hanging on
the wall, reflected the moonlight mournfully. The marble statues threw
huge dark shadows upon the walls, tragic and threatening.
Cristina dropped upon a sofa, and I sat down beside her.
We remained silent for some time.
"When, for the first time," I said at last, "I had the pleasure to enter
your house, I felt as if I saw a little bit of heaven below--joy,
cordiality, serene and innocent happiness, the tender love of a wife who
inspires respect, the restful felicity of a husband free from any of the
suspicions that embitter existence--a yoke of love and peace; and about
you plenty, riches, all the good gifts of life. Shall I surprise you if
I say that among the leafage of so many joys I have seen uplifted the
head of the serpent?"
"I do not doubt it," she replied pensively, looking out at the heavens
through the crystal-clear windows.
"If I could not see your face, I should still be able to divine what you
are feeling. Your eyes are not able to conceal what passes in your
soul. How happy you would have made me by confiding to me your troubles!
I am a new friend, I know, but the affection that you and Emilio inspire
in me could not be more sincere."
"Thank you, thank you, Captain Ribot," she murmured, "but it is not
possible."
"It is not possible, truly. How could it be when I lack skill to
persuade you of the sincerity of my sentiments? I confess that there
have been reasons why you should not give me your confidence. I have
repented with all my soul, and I beg your forgiveness."
As if these words agitated her, she rose, pushed aside a hanging
curtain, went to the piano that stood open, ran her fingers over the
keys, then came and sat down again.
"I understand by what I overheard," I said, after a pause, "that Castell
has some hold over you--that you are in his debt."
"Our entire fortune is in his hands."
"What!"
"Emilio has been to him for money to use in his business, which was
ruined."
"And this was given in the hope of obliging you to accept his devotion?"
"It is possible. Castell is more of a business man than a lover. No
matter what he pretends, buying and selling is his business. He has
always had the idea of getting absolute control of the steamboat line."
"I suppose that after what has been overheard, he will desist for a
little in trying to get possession of it."
"I don't know."
She sat thoughtful for a few moments. Then, as if she were talking to
herself, she said in a dull voice:
"The day that Emilio and I were married he was at my house from the hour
of the ceremony until I went to change my dress. We were going to Madrid
to spend a few days. When I came down, I stumbled upon him waiting for
me on the stairs. He made some gallant speeches to me at that time, and
begged a spray of my orange flowers, which he put next his heart. I gave
it to him against my will, from bashfulness, from timidity. He was
repulsive to me from the first moment. Later, when we were at the
station, and he came to give me his hand for good-by, he said, almost in
my ear, 'If some day it chances that you get tired of him, remember that
he has friends who admire you as much or more than he does.'"
"What insolence!"
"I did not like to say anything to my husband then; I have not wished to
since. The friendship that united them was strong, and I hesitated to
break it. How many times since then I have asked myself if I did right
or wrong!"
"And before that he had not addressed you especially?"
"Yes, and no. Once we were at Denia. Castell was there, and I danced
with him at a ball at the house of some friends; it was several months
before I knew Emilio. That evening he made a little love to me and
almost declared himself. I took that for what it was, the diversion of a
traveller who does everything he can think of to keep from being bored.
And, indeed, he left Denia, and Spain, and spent nearly two years in
travelling. When he came back, I was going to be married to Emilio. It
was only a fortnight before the wedding."
"Providence has been cruel placing such a man in your pathway, and
giving him power to cause you so much trouble."
She did not answer. She remained thoughtful for a while; at last,
looking at me with her great eyes full of interest, said:
"But you are so very, very good, Ribot. Don't let us talk any more about
my troubles, but think of those that _you_ have to bear."
"Bah! 'tis quite the contrary with me. I should give thanks to God that
I have been undeceived in time. Somehow I have always suspected that the
girl was in love with Castell, although Emilio and Sabas were so certain
of something else. And, to be frank, I also love someone else better."
"Then why don't you marry her?"
"Because, because--I don't know why; that is to say, if I knew and if
you also knew--but there are things that I do not care to confess to
myself."
These words made her look troubled. I was repentant at once, as the rays
of the moon let me see on her forehead that frown dreaded of yore.
"No, Cristina, no!" I hastened to say vehemently, "I beg you not to
think that which I read in your eyes. I have been through bitter
struggles, despairing conflicts with myself. I have stumbled, and fallen
too, but I have risen; and--I can say it without pride--never shall
treachery find shelter in my breast. I have not Castell's brilliant
qualities. I am far from possessing the advantages that make that man
admired and sought after; but if I possessed them all, I swear I would
not use them to stab a friend in the back. Far more than the
satisfactions of love, more than all the enjoyments of earth--and even
those of heaven if they were offered me--I hold the peace of my own
conscience."
The warmth of my tones and the sincerity of expression with which I
uttered these words made her lift her head and look at me in a slight
amaze. Her brow grew calm, and a sweet smile lingered upon her lips.
"Yes, I have already come to see that you are more original in that way
than could at first have been imagined. I think it much better this
way."
And saying so, she graciously held out her hand to me, and I pressed it
with as much respect as emotion. At this moment a shadow fell across us,
then one appeared before us, saying:
"Good-evening."
Both Cristina and I were painfully startled.
"You here, Emilio? I thought you had gone to bed," she said, instantly
controlling herself.
"No, no; I didn't go to bed. I felt the heat, like the rest of you, and
came out for a turn in the garden. I heard the sound of conversation, so
I came in."
In spite of the natural voice he made a point of using, there was
something in his manner and a strangeness in his tones that disquieted
us immensely.
"It is a very beautiful night," he went on, beginning to walk up and
down the place with his hands in his pockets. "The month of September
has not fallen behind August. Even in the mornings it is scarcely cool
yet. I found I had no desire to go to bed."
I replied to him in words as unimportant as his own. He gave no sign of
having heard me. He went on walking up and down in an absorbed manner,
and at last he went over to the balcony and stood motionless looking out
through the glass. Then he opened one of the windows and stepped outside
to get more of the cool night air.
Cristina gazed at him without moving an eyelash. In her eyes a great
anguish was visible. She seemed alarmed. Thus several minutes passed in
silence. At last, as if unable longer to endure this tension, she rose
impetuously, went to her husband and put her hand on his shoulder,
saying:
"Come, let us go to the house."
"As you like," he replied dryly.
We went out of the pavilion and along the avenue of acacias that led to
it. I tried to walk with Marti and to talk with him. I saw that he
shrank from my company, and answered with few words. Before reaching the
house he took his wife's arm and went on ahead, leaving me behind. This
mute rebuff made my heart ache. I followed with a sadness that presently
gave way to decided impatience, thinking with what injustice I was
treated. As we went along in this fashion, there came into my mind the
strong resolution to enter into a clear and definite explanation with
him, and disclose to him all that had passed.
We arrived at the door of the house and paused under the glass portico.
Through the opened window of the dining-room I could see Isabelita,
Castell, and Dona Amparo.
"Come," I said, with affected indifference, "you two are going to bed
and I into the city."
"Won't you wait until we can order the carriage?" asked Cristina
timidly.
"No; I have an appetite for a stroll in the light of the moon. _Hasta
manana._ Good-night."
I offered Emilio my hand.
"No," he said, with an unusual gravity. "I am going with you as far as
the farthest gateway. I, too, feel like a stroll."
I gave my hand to Cristina. For the first time in her life she pressed
it with singular force, at the same time giving me an anxious look of
supplication. I, moved to the depths of the soul, answered her eyes with
my own, promising her in that way that she might depend upon me.
We walked away slowly, taking the path that led to the entrance gate.
Marti walked with his hat in his hand, and preserved an obstinate
silence. I waited for him to break it before we parted, promising myself
to be faithful to the silent promise that I had made to Cristina. So it
was he who, as we approached the boundary wall, paused and, without
looking at me, spoke:
"Married men, Ribot, often have an exaggerated susceptibility. Not only
do their own affections torment them, but the fear of becoming objects
of ridicule sometimes obliges them to be suspicious even when they are
by nature confiding. The friends of such men do well to avoid awakening
this susceptibility, conducting themselves on all occasions with care
and delicacy. By this means friendship is yoked to gratitude."
"You are right," I replied. "So far in my life I have managed to fulfil
this obligation towards all men with whom I have had to do, not merely
towards friends, as you say, but towards men of my general acquaintance.
An unfortunate accident placed me in a situation that wounds your _amor
proprio_, if not your honor. Understand, however, that Cristina----"
"We will not talk of Cristina," he interrupted, gazing firmly into my
eyes. "Every night of the year before going to sleep I give thanks to
God for having united me to her. To-night will be the same as the
others."
"We will talk about me, then. An unfortunate accident, I repeat, placed
me in a situation to hurt the susceptibility that has been mentioned. I
deplore this with all my soul, although I do not find myself to blame.
In any case, it would have been an indiscretion. However, these matters
are of such peculiar delicacy that a recent friendship cannot risk the
consequences of the slightest annoyance. If you feel any such annoyance,
I am resolved to take myself away from here, and never again set foot in
your house."
There was no response. We pursued in silence the remaining distance to
the gate. When we reached it, he paused and, without looking at me, said
in a trembling voice:
"Although I feel it very much, I cannot do less than accept your
resolution. Perhaps I am making myself ridiculous in your eyes and in
those of anyone who might know of what has passed; but what would you? I
prefer to be considered absurd rather than see disturbed in the
slightest degree the tranquillity that until now I have enjoyed."
"You are right," I said. "In your place I should do the same. To-morrow
morning early I shall leave Valencia, and it may be that we shall never
meet again. I desire you to know, none the less, that this is one of the
profoundest griefs of my whole life. I appreciate your friendship more
than you realize. I am grateful for your affectionate hospitality, and I
shall never console myself for having unintentionally caused you the
least trouble. If some day you have need of me, all that I have is
yours."
"Thank you, thank you, Ribot," he murmured, moved.
He put one hand on the latch of the gate, and with the other lifted his
hat. I did not care to let him see that I knew he did this to avoid
taking my hand, so, without extending my own, I went out into the road.
"_Adios_, Marti," I said, turning my head, "God keep you always as happy
as you have been until now."
"_Adios_, Ribot. _Muchas gracias._"