"If you knew how all the servants wept a moment since."

"Poor people!... I love them all so much!"

"Here is Marta, who wants to say good by."

"Come nearer, Marta ... Are you becoming reconciled yet?"

"What remedy have I, Maria," replied the girl, struggling to repress her sobs.

"No, sister; you must resign yourself gladly, and be thankful to the Lord for the favors which he has heaped upon me.... You will always be good, will you not?... Console papa.... Don't forget those prayers which I gave you, nor fail to read the books of which I told you.... Come to hear ma.s.s every day.... Try to be always earnest and humble...."

Ah, no! Mart.i.ta would not try, would not try. As she was born good and humble there is no need of striving for it. In this regard the bride of the Lord may be at rest.

The small room where the two nuns stood near the grating seemed like a prison cell by its ugliness and gloom. Their tunics stood out like two white spots against the black lattice.

The friends took turns in speaking, or all spoke at once to Maria, with a strange mixture of admiration, of pity, of curiosity, and of affection. They asked a thousand impertinent questions and many ridiculous requests about prayers, medals, and other things. A few young fellows who had belonged to the old tertulias at the Elorza mansion, had slipped in with the crowd, and were gazing with wide-open eyes of wonder at the new nun, but dared not speak to her. She showed herself serene and lovely, and called them by name with a certain rea.s.suring condescension, giving them messages for their families. The boldest was the ceremonious youth of the banged hair, who stepped up, and reaching the grating, very much stifled, called the novice by her new name, saying,--

"Sister Juana, I want to ask you a favor; please give me as a remembrance a few orange blossoms from the crown which you wear...."

"If the mother is willing...." murmured Maria, turning her face to the Mother Superior.

She bowed a.s.sent, and the gift of orange flowers was liberal and gracefully granted.

At that instant the Sister Luisa, the nun who was to be punished for her vanity, came in and fell upon her knees, but not the slightest trace of a blush pa.s.sed over her face. The habit of performing such deeds deprived them of all worth.

The conversation wandered off upon festivals, novenas to come, the journey of the vicar who was called to be canon of the cathedral, his successor, and other subjects. Insensibly all were lowering the tone of their voices until there was only a monotonous and melancholy whispering. It seemed like a visit of condolence rather than of congratulation. They continued to extol Maria's courage and virtue. "Ay, Dios mio! to think that she is a prisoner forever and living a life of so much labor...."

The Mother Superior looking at the novice, with a sort of half smile not very encouraging, exclaimed, "Poor little one! poor little one! "But she, turning around with one of those graceful gestures so characteristic, replied, "Rich little one, rich little one,[72] say I, mother!"

Gradually the young men had been getting near the girls, and without respect to the holiness of the place, or heeding the stern crucifixes fastened to the walls, they began to whisper more or less roguish remarks.

"When are you going to follow her example, Fulanita? The truth is, that if all of you did the same, what would become of us? But you would be sure to look lovely in the habit! See here, Amparito! If you should become a nun, I should wish to be vicar!"

"Now I wish you would be a little more serious, Suarez."

"How long should I have to be a priest to become vicar?... the worst thing is the grating.... Can't the vicar get behind the grating?"

"Be silent, man alive! it is a sin to say such things in this place!"

Rosarito and her lover had taken possession of a corner, only from time to time making some insignificant remark roused into the category of the sublime by the inflection of the voice and the trembling of the lips.

Only the old women, and a few young girls who had not succeeded in finding mates, still continued talking with the nuns. At last the Mother Superior arose from her chair, and Maria followed her example.

A man, a venerable man, crossed the plaza of Nieva with rapid strides; he followed the winding streets, he reached the convent of San Bernardo, he entered the court, mounted the stairway, pushed open the door of the reception-room, forced his way through the people, and laid heavy hands on the grating. He intended to say something solemn, something tremendous. It could be seen by the wrathful expression of his face, by the pallor of his cheeks, by the disorder of his white locks.

But he let his head fall, and only murmured,--

"My daughter! my daughter!"

And a flood of tears burst from his eyes.

CHAPTER XVI.

THE MARQUIS OF PEnALTA'S DREAM.

The transfer of the young artillery lieutenant, Ricardo de Penalta, had not yet arrived. He had applied for it a fortnight before the Senorita de Elorza took the veil. A month had already pa.s.sed since the great ceremony ... and nothing! The influential personages whom our friend had in Madrid, devoted to his interests, this time took little pains to fulfil his desires.

But why was our hero so anxious to leave Nieva? Be it said in honor of the truth, that when Ricardo asked for the transfer he was exceedingly desirous of turning his back forever upon those places where he had been so happy, and where he was going to be so wretched; but now, after the lapse of a month, the violence of his sorrow had somewhat subsided, and he was beginning to get accustomed to his misfortune. Still he continued to be greatly downcast; the whole town noticed it.

From the day when his betrothed had made him that horrible proposition, which he could not remember without being hot with anger, he understood that he should never be the master of Maria's heart. A secret and implacable voice kept ceaselessly whispering this to him. Thus the letter in which she announced her determination to enter the convent caused him no great surprise; for some time a rumor of this had been current in society. Yet, in spite of his best efforts, he could not help feeling a quick, keen pang and a melancholy that prostrated him completely. The more or less well-founded belief that the beloved woman does not return one's affection, is by no means the same thing as to see it confirmed by a material tangible fact. Not any longer did he retain the right to lose his temper and relieve his wrath by calling her perfidious and treacherous, as happens in the majority of cases. As the sincere Christian that he was, it became him to look with patience, even with pleasure (the letter said so distinctly!), upon that pious subst.i.tution of holy, sublime affections for those of earth, n.o.ble though they were. Maria was blameworthy in no respect,--absolutely in no respect; her conduct was worthy of all praise, and he saw how the whole city spontaneously and warmly rendered her their tribute. Possibly in this thought the young marquis found the only possible consolation; for the certain thing was, that the beautiful girl had not left him for any other man, but to follow the hard road that leads to heaven, for which, doubtless, it must require the doing of great violence to self. And in this violence our marquis took a little pride by thinking with delight, and at the same time with pain, on the strength which the new bride of Jesus must have employed, to tear up the roots of such a solid and long-established affection. But amid the beautiful foliage of these more or less consoling thoughts, a sad and cruel doubt often raised its odious head. Though Ricardo employed all expedients to get rid of such an idea, he could not help thinking very frequently that Maria had never professed for him a sincere and vehement love, like his for her; that she had been his betrothed through a compromise, through the influence of the peculiar circ.u.mstances in which both had found themselves in Nieva; that perhaps she had deceived herself in thinking that she loved him, since if she had really loved him, the idea of taking part in ridiculous conspiracies would never have entered into her head, still less that of proposing to him odious acts of treason; that Maria was a girl of much talent and great imagination, admirably fitted to shine in the world, or to undertake some religious or secular enterprise, of no matter how lofty a character, but incapable, perhaps from the very same reason, of delicacy of sentiments, of constancy, of the modest and humble abnegation which ought to characterize good wives and mothers.

Finally Ricardo came to the conclusion that his mistress had more head than heart, or else he did not know what he was talking about.

And gradually under the influence of these doubts, which went almost as far as to be certainties, there sprang up in his mind a strong aversion to the amorous memories, which were a drawback to him. When he thought of the Maria of former times, so joyous, so lovely, so buoyant, his heart would melt within him, and the tears would flow; when his thought went back to the day on which, hidden behind the curtains, he saw her pa.s.s by his house unmoved and smiling, without so much as casting a glance at his windows, his heart was filled with a bitterness not free from rancor. And when he saw her in his imagination in the garb of a San Bernardin nun, entirely oblivious of the sweet scenes which had been the enchantment of his life, despising them, perhaps, and looking upon them with horror, as though they had been crimes, our young friend--may G.o.d forgive him the sin--began to look with hatred upon the bride of Jesus Christ. These doubts which constantly a.s.saulted him were a genuine cautery for his pa.s.sion, painful and cruel, like all cauteries, but very salutary in their effects.

He did not for an instant cease to frequent the Elorza mansion as before. There he found two human beings whom he pitied and who pitied him. Moreover, it was a habit of his to spend a few hours each day between those four walls, and not only a habit, but a debt of grat.i.tude for the affection lavished upon him, and not only a debt, but also--and why should we not say so?--also a pleasure, a great pleasure, since he could not fail to find it so in being with such an accomplished gentleman as Don Mariano, who had showed that he loved him like a son, and with such a good and beautiful girl as Marta, whom he loved like a sister. Grief had still further limited the circle of his affections. In proportion as the recollection of Maria became less pleasant to him, the sweeter did he find the love of that family, and he clung to it as to the last plank in the shipwreck of his hopes. If he let this plank escape him, he would be left alone. Alone! alone! This word brought back to him that terrible night spent in the train, when he returned to Nieva after his mother's death. Cruel fate sounded it in his ears when he least expected it. Finally, while he stayed in Nieva, it did not ring with such a mournfully and disconsolate accent, because all that he saw and touched in his own house spoke to him of his mother's tenderness; and all that he found in the Elorza mansion, recalled Maria's love; but how would it be in the future?... What would the desert fields of Castilla say to him, across which the swift locomotive would carry him?

What would the indifferent mult.i.tude in the streets of Madrid say to him?... Therefore Ricardo feared more than he desired the transfer which he had asked for with so much eagerness.

Every day when he reached the Elorza's, Mart.i.ta asked him, "Has it come yet, Ricardo?"

Sometimes he replied between jest and earnest,--

"Perhaps you are anxious for me to go away, Mart.i.ta?"

"Oh, no," would be the young girl's reply, with an inflection of voice equal to a poem.

But Ricardo did not have the power of reading it. These love-wrecked men, these men wounded by disenchantment, cannot read other poems than their own.

Marta, after the death of her mother, in whose illness Ricardo had so much aided and consoled her, once more treated him with the same confidence and affection as of old. For some time she had been rather cool toward him. Don Mariano's younger daughter had pa.s.sed through a terrible crisis, and no one in the house had a suspicion of it. While it lasted she was rather more brusque in her behavior, more restless, more serious and reserved; but at last her calm spirit and her healthy and well-balanced nature came out victorious. Dona Gertrudis's death, which was a more serious and genuine calamity than anything else, had no small effect in calming the disturbances and commotions of her heart. She was once more the same Marta, tranquil, serene, and affectionate as before, always anxious to free obstacles from the path of others, though her own were blocked by an unsurmountable wall. Fortunate are they who in life meet with these blessed beings who found their own happiness in that of others, and who offer the flowers and content themselves with the thorns.

Ricardo spent long hours at the Elorzas'. Whole afternoons, especially, he devoted to Don Mariano and his daughter, going to walk with them when the weather was fair, and staying in the house when it rained.

Sometimes, too, he came in the morning, and then Don Mariano would invite him to stay to dinner. While Ricardo refused and the caballero insisted, Marta did not open her lips, but her anxiety was betrayed in her face, and her eager desire to keep him shone in her supplicating eyes. When, finally, he accepted, the girl's joy was evident, and her solicitude was evident in the way that she took charge of everything, going to and from the kitchen any number of times, preparing the dishes which she knew were most to the young marquis's taste, and keeping the servants alert; the _beefsteak a la inglesa_ (for Ricardo had learned in Madrid to eat it rather rare), the cold fish, the boiled rice, the slice of lemon (Ricardo put lemon on almost all his food), the English mustard, the olives, and other things. But where Marta used her five senses was with the coffee. Ricardo was a perfect Arab, a Sybarite in regard to coffee. Thus it was that the girl bestowed a more lively and vigilant care upon the preparation of this liquid than a chemist on the a.n.a.lysis of some precious metal. While she came and went, making all the preparations, the young fellow did not cease to rally her in the same affectionate tone as of old; and this, too, though Marta, if still a little short for her age, was now a real woman, and not among the worst favored, either, as we have already had occasion to remark. She had grown slightly, nevertheless.

"Come, _caponcita_,[73] when did you stop growing?" said Ricardo, detaining her by one of her braids of hair, as she was pa.s.sing in front of him.

The girl smiled, shrugged her shoulders, and continued on her way.

From the day on which he had been vexed with her, Mart.i.ta had never asked him about the transfer, but whenever he entered the house, all gave him a keen, anxious look, as though trying to read some tidings in his face. As it did not come, the girl recovered her tranquillity and resumed her work, which she rarely failed to have in her hands. Ricardo likewise said nothing about going away; either he did not remember his pet.i.tion, or affected not to remember it, or wished not to remember it.

Perhaps it was a little of all. The Marquis de Penalta had pa.s.sed from disconsolateness to melancholy, and from this he was gradually letting himself drift on toward a happier frame of mind. The house where Marta sewed began to inspire jocund ideas of sweet ease and happiness.

One morning, Ricardo, as though it was the most natural thing in the world, as though the tidings did not tear any one's heart, as though it were some mere trifle of little consequence at issue, came into the Elorzas', and said,--

"Yesterday evening at last my transfer to Valencia came!"

Blind! blind! dost thou not see that girl's pallor? Dost thou not notice the painful trembling that runs over her body? Look out! she is going to fall! Run, run to her a.s.sistance!