IV

When Don Sebastian walked from the cathedral to his house after the

burial of his wife, no one saw a trace of emotion on his face, and it

was with his wonted grave courtesy that he bowed to a friend as he

passed him. Sternly and briefly, as usual, he gave orders that no one

should disturb him, and went to the room of Dona Sodina; he knelt on the

praying-stool which Dona Sodina had daily used for so many years, and he

fixed his eyes on the crucifix hanging on the wall above it. The day

passed, and the night passed, and Don Sebastian never moved--no thought

or emotion entered him; being alive, he was like the dead; he was like

the dead that linger on the outer limits of hell, with never a hope for

the future, dull with the despair that shall last for ever and ever and

ever. But when the woman who had nursed him in his childhood lovingly

disobeyed his order and entered to give him food, she saw no tear in his

eye, no sign of weeping.

'You are right!' he said, painfully rising from his knees. 'Give me to

eat.'

Listlessly taking the food, he sank into a chair and looked at the bed

on which had lately rested the corpse of Dona Sodina; but a kindly

nature relieved his unhappiness, and he fell into a weary sleep.

When he awoke, the night was far advanced; the house, the town were

filled with silence; all round him was darkness, and the ivory crucifix

shone dimly, dimly. Outside the door a page was sleeping; he woke him

and bade him bring light.... In his sorrow, Don Sebastian began to look

at the things his wife had loved; he fingered her rosary, and turned

over the pages of the half-dozen pious books which formed her library;

he looked at the jewels which he had seen glittering on her bosom; the

brocades, the rich silks, the cloths of gold and silver that she had

delighted to wear. And at last he came across an old breviary which he

thought she had lost--how glad she would have been to find it, she had

so often regretted it! The pages were musty with their long concealment,

and only faintly could be detected the scent which Dona Sodina used

yearly to make and strew about her things. Turning over the pages

listlessly, he saw some crabbed writing; he took it to the

light--'_To-night, my beloved, I come._' And the handwriting was that of

Pablo, Archbishop of Xiormonez. Don Sebastian looked at it long. Why

should his brother write such words in the breviary of Dona Sodina? He

turned the pages and the handwriting of his wife met his eye and the

words were the same--'_To-night, my beloved, I come_'--as if they were

such delight to her that she must write them herself. The breviary

dropped from Don Sebastian's hand.

The taper, flickering in the draught, threw glaring lights on Don

Sebastian's face, but it showed no change in it. He sat looking at the

fallen breviary, and, in his mind, at the love which was dead. At last

he passed his hand over his forehead.

'And yet,' he whispered, 'I loved thee well!'

But as the day came he picked up the breviary and locked it in a casket;

he knelt again at the praying-stool and, lifting his hands to the

crucifix, prayed silently. Then he locked the door of Dona Sodina's

room, and it was a year before he entered it again.

That day the Archbishop Pablo came to his brother to offer consolation

for his loss, and Don Sebastian at the parting kissed him on either

cheek.

V

The people of Xiormonez said that Don Sebastian was heart-broken, for

from the date of his wife's interment he was not seen in the streets by

day. A few, returning home from some riot, had met him wandering in the

dead of the night, but he passed them silently by. But he sent his

servants to Toledo and Burgos, to Salamanca, Cordova, even to Paris and

Rome; and from all these places they brought him books--and day after

day he studied in them, till the common folk asked if he had turned

magician.

So passed eleven months, and nearly twelve, till it wanted but five days

to the anniversary of the death of Dona Sodina. Then Don Sebastian wrote

to his brother the letter which for months he had turned over in his

mind,--

'_Seeing the instability of all human things, and the uncertain

length of our exile upon earth, I have considered that it is evil

for brothers to remain so separate. Therefore I implore you--who

are my only relative in this world, and heir to all my goods and

estates--to visit me quickly, for I have a presentiment that death

is not far off, and I would see you before we are parted by the

immense sea._'

The archbishop was thinking that he must shortly pay a visit to his

cathedral city, and, as his brother had desired, came to Xiormonez

immediately. On the anniversary of Dona Sodina's interment, Don

Sebastian entertained Archbishop Pablo to supper.

'My brother,' said he, to his guest, 'I have lately received from

Cordova a wine which I desire you to taste. It is very highly prized in

Africa, whence I am told it comes, and it is made with curious art and

labour.'

Glass cups were brought, and the wine poured in. The archbishop was a

connoisseur, and held it between the light and himself, admiring the

sparkling clearness, and then inhaled the odour.

'It is nectar,' he said.

At last he sipped it.

'The flavour is very strange.'

He drank deeply. Don Sebastian looked at him and smiled as his brother

put down the empty glass. But when he was himself about to drink, the

cup fell between his hands and the steward's, breaking into a hundred

fragments, and the wine spilt on the floor.

'Fool!' cried Don Sebastian, and in his anger struck the servant.

But being a man of peace, the archbishop interposed.

'Do not be angry with him; it was an accident. There is more wine in the

flagon.'

'No, I will not drink it,' said Don Sebastian, wrathfully. 'I will drink

no more to-night.'

The archbishop shrugged his shoulders.

When they were alone, Don Sebastian made a strange request.

'My brother, it is a year to-day that Sodina was buried, and I have not

entered her room since then. But now I have a desire to see it. Will you

come with me?'

The archbishop consented, and together they crossed the long corridor

that led to Dona Sodina's apartment, preceded by a boy with lights.

Don Sebastian unlocked the door, and, taking the taper from the page's

hand, entered. The archbishop followed. The air was chill and musty, and

even now an odour of recent death seemed to pervade the room.

Don Sebastian went to a casket, and from it took a breviary. He saw his

brother start as his eye fell on it. He turned over the leaves till he

came to a page on which was the archbishop's handwriting, and handed it

to him.

'Oh God!' exclaimed the priest, and looked quickly at the door. Don

Sebastian was standing in front of it. He opened his mouth to cry out,

but Don Sebastian interrupted him.

'Do not be afraid! I will not touch you.'

For a while they looked at one another silently; one pale, sweating with

terror, the other calm and grave as usual. At last Don Sebastian spoke,

hoarsely.

'Did she--did she love you?'

'Oh, my brother, forgive her. It was long ago--and she repented

bitterly. And I--I!'

'I have forgiven you.'

The words were said so strangely that the archbishop shuddered. What did

he mean?

Don Sebastian smiled.

'You have no cause for anxiety. From now it is finished. I will forget.'

And, opening the door, he helped his brother across the threshold. The

archbishop's hand was clammy as a hand of death.

When Don Sebastian bade his brother good-night, he kissed him on either

cheek.