A FUGITIVE.
The wonderful good news flew through Socartes. Nothing else was talked
of in the smelting-houses, in the workshops, in the washing-mills, on
the tram-way, in the deepest diggings, and on the top of the hill,
in the bowels of the earth or the open light of heaven. Various
interesting commentaries were added: that in Aldeacorba it was thought
for a moment that Don Francisco was out of his wits with joy; that Don
Manuel meant to celebrate the happy event by giving a grand banquet to
all the hands employed in the mines; and, finally, that Don Teodoro
was a great man, whom all blind men, present or to come, might indeed
esteem, “as the apple of their eye.”
Nela could not venture to go to the house at Aldeacorba. A mysterious
force seemed to hold her back. She wandered all day round and about the
mines, gazing from afar at the Penáguilas’ house, which in her eyes,
looked transformed. Her spirit was full of a strange compound of the
sincerest joy and an overwhelming shamefacedness, of noble devotion and
with it the unendurable aching, so to speak, of an intensely sensitive
self-consciousness.
She found some surcease from the turmoil of her brain in that motherly
solitude which had contributed so largely to the formation of her
character, and in dreaming over the beauty of Nature, which always
lifted her soul to closer communion with the Divinity. The clouds in
the sky and the flowers of the field affected her mind as others are
affected by the pomp of altars, the eloquence of preachers and the
study of the meditations of the mystics. In the solitude of the open
country she thought and said a thousand things that she never dreamed
were aspirations and prayers. She looked towards Aldeacorba, and said
to herself:
“I will never go there again.--All is over and done.--Of what use can I
be now?”
With all her ignorance she understood that the struggle in her soul
arose from her incapacity to hate any one; on the contrary, she
was constrained to love her friend and her enemy alike, and just
as thistles turned into flowers under the miraculous touch of some
Christian martyr, Nela perceived that her jealousy and aversion were
graciously blossoming into admiration and gratitude. That which could
undergo no change was the feeling we have described as self-conscious
shame, and which urged her to keep herself quite apart from any events
which might henceforth occur in Aldeacorba. It was a special aspect of
the sentiment which in civilized and educated persons is called _amour
propre_, which includes in itself the capacity for self-depreciation.
The connection, however, between her feeling and that which has so
large a share in the actions of cultivated persons, consisted in the
fact that both were founded on a punctilious sense of dignity. If
Marianela could have expressed herself in their language she would have
said:
“My dignity will not allow me to submit to the horrible degradation
you would put upon me. It is God’s will that I should endure this
humiliation--so be it; but I cannot stand by and see myself deposed and
discrowned. May his blessings fall on the head of her who, by a law of
nature, must fill the place I once occupied--but I have not the courage
to put her there with my own hands.”
But not being able to utter her pain in these words, she could only
say: “I will never go to Aldeacorba again--I will never let him see me.
I will run away with Celipin, or I will go to my mother. I am of no use
now to any one.”
Still, even while she said this, it struck her as very sad that she
should have to give up the divine protection of that Heavenly Maiden
who had appeared to her in the darkest hour of her life, and cast her
sheltering mantle over her! To think that after seeing the vision
realized which had so often appeared to her in dreams of thrilling
beatitude, she must renounce it--to have heard herself called by a
gentle voice, that offered her a sister’s love, a happy home, position,
a name, and a luxurious existence--and then be unable to obey the
invitation with joy, alacrity and thankfulness--to reject the hand
which would snatch her from a life of degradation and misery, and
make a lady of the wretched vagabond, raising her from the rank of a
domestic animal to that of a loved and respected woman!...
“Woe, woe!” she cried, clutching her bosom as if her fingers were
talons: “I cannot, never, never.... Nothing in the world shall ever
take me to Aldeacorba! Virgin, mother of my soul, take me, take me....
Mother, will you not come and fetch me!”
As night came on, she went home; on her way she met Celipin with a
stick in his hand and his cap hung on the end of it.
“Look here, Nelilla,” said the boy: “Is not this how Don Teodoro
carries his hat? Just now I was passing the pool at Hinojales and
I looked at my reflection in the water. My! was not I surprised--I
thought I looked just like Don Teodoro Golfin. Some day this week we
will set out to become learned and useful persons. I have got as much
money now as I want, and you will see, no one will dare to laugh at
Señor de Celipin.”
For three days Nela kept out of the way, wandering about the
neighborhood of the mines, following the course of the river along its
rugged banks, or hiding herself in the quiet recesses of the wood of
Saldeoro. The nights she spent in her basket, but she could not sleep.
One night she timidly called her companion:
“Celipin--when?” and Celipin replied with all the solemnity befitting a
regular expedition:
“To-morrow.”
The two adventurers rose at day-break, and both went their way; Celipin
to his work, and Nela to carry a message from Señana to the engineer’s
housekeeper. On her return she found Señorita Florentina, who was
waiting for her at Centeno’s house. María was surprised and alarmed at
seeing her, though her instinct told her of the end and object of this
visit.
“Nela, my little sister,” said the girl with engaging gentleness: “Why
are you behaving so strangely? Why have you not been near us all these
days? Come, Pablo wishes to see you. Do you not know that now he can
say: ‘I want to see this thing or the other?’ Do you not know that my
cousin is no longer blind?”
“Yes--I know it,” said Nela, taking the hand Florentina held out to her
and covering it with kisses.
“Come along then; come at once. He is always asking for ‘Señora Nela.’
And to-day you must be there when Don Teodoro takes the bandage off--it
is the fourth time. Oh! the first day--when he first tried it! What a
day that was! When we knew for certain that my cousin was born again,
as I may say, to the light of day--we almost died of joy.--And the
first face he saw was mine.--Come along, quickly.” But María drew her
hand out of her Virgin’s clasp.
“Have you forgotten my promise, my vow?” Florentina went on, “or did
you think I was talking at random? But indeed, nothing I can do seems
enough to show our Mother of Mercies my gratitude for the grace she
has shown us. I should like that, on this day, not a creature that
the whole world contains should be sad. I should like to divide my
happiness, and fling it abroad on all sides, as the sower casts the
seed; I should like to go into every wretched dwelling and say: ‘All
your troubles are ended. I have a remedy for them all.’--But it is
impossible; no one can do that but God. Still, as my powers are not
equal to my will, let me at any rate do what I can--and these are not
mere words, Nela. Come with me, away from this hovel; bid farewell to
everything that has made part of your misery and your loneliness. For
you may have an affection, even for your wretchedness, my child.”
Marianela did not, however, say good-bye to anything; and as none
of the family were indoors at that hour, she did not wait for them.
Florentina went out, leading by the hand the poor little girl whom her
noble impulses and christian feeling had adopted to be her equal; and
Nela allowed herself to be led, from sheer incapacity to offer any
resistance. She felt as though some superhuman power had taken her in
hand and was carrying her along, fatally and inevitably, as the angels
bear a soul away to Heaven.
They took the path by Hinojales, where the vagabond child had seen
Florentina for the first time. As they turned into the lane the young
lady said to her companion.
“Why have you not been to the house? My uncle says that you have so
much natural modesty and delicacy that it is a pity you should not have
been educated. Was it delicacy that kept you from coming to ask for
what, by God’s mercy, you had so happily gained? Without doubt my uncle
is right.... You should have seen the poor dear man that day--he said
he should not be sorry to die!--Do you see? My eyes are still red with
crying so much. And last night my uncle and my father and I never went
to sleep; we were making plans for all the family and building castles
in the air all night--Why do you say nothing? Why are you so silent?
Are you not as glad as I am?”
Nela looked up in the girl’s bright face and made a faint effort to
resist the gentle hand that held hers.
“Come along--what is the matter? You look at me so strangely Nela.”
She did indeed; the hapless child’s eyes wandering vaguely from one
object to another, ended by fixing themselves on the Virgin of her
fancy, with a strange glitter of apprehension.
“Why does your hand tremble so?” Florentina went on. “Are you ill?
You are as pale as death and your teeth are chattering. If you are
ill I will cure you, I myself can cure you. From this day you will
have some one to care for you, and pet you, and make much of you.
And I shall not be alone you know, for Pablo is very fond of you--he
told me so. We both love you dearly and he and I shall be like one
person.--He wants to see you. Just fancy how full of curiosity a man
must be who has never seen anything at all; but you cannot think
how--from being so clever as he is, and having an imagination which
seems to have given him a number of ideas which blind people scarcely
ever have--from the first moment he knew what was pretty and what was
ugly. A bit of scarlet sealing-wax pleased him at once and a piece
of coal he thought hideous. He admired the beauty of the sky and was
disgusted at the sight of a frog. Everything that is beautiful excites
him to an enthusiasm that is almost delirium; everything ugly fills him
with horror, and makes him tremble as we do when we are frightened.
My appearance must have pleased him, for he exclaimed as soon as he
saw me: “Oh! cousin, how pretty you are! Thank God for having bestowed
sight on me so that I can see you!”
Nela had gently withdrawn her hand from Florentina’s grasp and fell on
the ground as if suddenly stricken to death. The young girl bent over
her, saying in coaxing tones: “Oh! what is it ails you? Why do you
look at me so?” Marianela fixed her eyes on the Holy Virgin’s face with
a miserable stare; still their expression was not one of aversion, but
rather a gaze of agonized entreaty, like the last look of a dying man
imploring mercy from the image of the Saviour, and believing it to be
God himself.
“Señora,” murmured the child, “I do not hate you--no indeed I do not
hate you. On the contrary, I love you dearly--I adore you.” And taking
up the hem of Florentina’s dress she pressed it to her dry lips and
kissed it fervently.
“But whoever supposed you would hate me?” said the young girl greatly
bewildered. “I know that you love me. But you frighten me--get up.”
“I do love you, dearly, dearly; I adore you,” repeated Nela, kissing
the feet of her benefactress. “And yet I cannot--I cannot....”
“What cannot you do--for God’s sake! get up.” Florentina put out
her arms to help her up; but Nela rose without any assistance, and
springing away to a safe distance, she repeated, bursting into a flood
of tears:
“I cannot Señorita, I cannot.”
“What?--in Heaven’s name! what has come over you?”
“I cannot go there.” And she pointed to Aldeacorba, where the roof of
Don Francisco’s house was visible among the trees.
“And why?”
“The Blessed Virgin knows,” replied the child with prompt decision.
“May the Holy Virgin bless you!” She made a cross with her fingers and
kissed it; she was registering a vow.
Florentina took a step towards her and María, understanding the loving
impulse, flew to meet her; she laid her head against her friend’s
bosom, and murmured as she sobbed: “Kiss me--for God’s sake! give me
one kiss!”
Florentina kissed her tenderly, and then freeing herself with a start,
or rather a wild and sudden leap, the child--or woman--fled to a brake
close at hand; the brushwood seemed to open and swallow her up.
“Nela, Nela--little sister!” cried Florentina in much distress.
“Farewell, child of my eyes!” said Nela, turning round to look at her
once more; and she vanished in the copse.
Florentina listened to the rustle of the branches, as the hunter
listens to the rush of the prey that has escaped him. Then all was
silent; not a sound was to be heard but the vague monotone that fills
the atmosphere at noon in the open country--a sound which seems to
be the whisper of our own thoughts as they go forth towards all that
surrounds us. Florentina stood amazed, powerless, speechless, deeply
distressed--as if she had just seen some fond illusion snatched from
her gaze. She did not know what to think of it all, and even her
unbounded kind-heartedness, which often crippled her judgment, could
supply no explanation.
She had been standing in the same spot for some little time, her head
drooping, her cheeks tingling, and her blue eyes full of tears, when
Teodoro Golfin happened to come upon her, making his way at an easy
pace from Aldeacorba homewards. The doctor was greatly astonished to
find the young lady alone and with an expression of vexation and regret
which, far from diminishing her beauty, added to it and made it more
interesting.
“What ails the girl?” he exclaimed with some anxiety. “Why, Florentina,
what is the matter?”
“A dreadful thing, Señor Golfin,” said Florentina, wiping her eyes. “I
was thinking--considering how many terrible things there are in the
world.”
“And what are these terrible things, Señorita? Where have you been?
Can anything have happened to you?”
“Provoking things--and of all things there is one which is more
provoking than all the rest.”
“What is that?”
“Ingratitude, Señor.” And pointing to the copse of bramble and fern,
she added: “It was in that direction.”
She went up to the highest spot at hand to see farther into the
distance. “Quite out of sight!” she said with a sigh.
“Quite,” said the surgeon laughing. “Don Manuel told me that you were
devoting yourself to collecting butterflies. They are ungrateful
creatures indeed not to wish to be caught by you.”
“It is not that--I will tell you all about it if you are going to
Aldeacorba.”
“I was not going, as I have just come away, fair damsel; but if you
will tell me all about it--be it what it may--I will go back again. I
am all ears for your story.”