CHAPTER XXIX
A WOMAN'S SACRIFICE FOR HER BROTHER-IN-LAW
AT last the poisoned arrow so much dreaded by Gonzalo pierced his heart; it was not a paragraph, it was a story, supposed to have taken place in Scotland, in which he, his wife, Don Rosendo, and other well-known people were made atrocious objects of ridicule. Among other things, it was said that while the sheriff (evidently Gonzalo) was assiduously fulfilling the duties of his office, Lord Trollope (the duke) undertook for him the duties of husband to his beautiful wife.
Gonzalo felt the same sense of rage and misery as before; but this time he decided to control himself and find out if there were any truth in the malignant insinuation, and if unfortunately there should be, he would take full and complete revenge.
It cost him great trouble to hide the feelings which preyed upon him, unaccustomed as he was to dissimulation, but he was greatly helped by his strong desire to put an end to his doubts. The only thing noticeable about him was that he seemed rather sad and preoccupied. He devoted himself for some days to watching his wife, never losing sight of her for an instant; but he discovered nothing to confirm his suspicions. At the same time, he watched to see if and how the duke might have access to her. The result of his investigations was that he found that this could only be the case when he went to the municipal sessions. This was impossible by day, as the duke was not a person who could go unobserved; it must then be in the hours of the night when he slept in town.
He determined to know the truth at once. To that end he announced to his family a few days in advance that a meeting of the Town Council would oblige him to sleep in Sarrio on Friday, for the meeting was an important one, as it was to decide nothing less than the appointment of one of the two doctors of the place, paid by the municipal corporation.
The Maza party had their candidate, and that of Don Rosendo theirs, and the contention was most bitter, not about the votes, which had been perfectly counted the previous day, but because the Cabin party, who had been defeated, had prepared a petition to Parliament to nullify the election of the enemies' candidate, by saying he had not had the months of practise considered necessary by the corporation to make the candidate eligible. The day of the great test found Gonzalo very upset. He had craftily tried to find out if any servant of the house was a party to the matter, or at least if he knew anything; but he found out nothing which could make him think so. He breakfasted without appetite, and after swallowing his coffee he went off with his father-in-law. The meeting of the Town Council lasted till ten o'clock at night. Then he went home with Don Rosendo, who noticed that his son-in-law was preoccupied and abstracted. Gonzalo excused himself by saying that he was much irritated by the spleen and behavior of Maza's friends. They retired to rest at eleven o'clock, and then, when all was silent, our young man secretly left the house, and took the road to Tejada on foot.
The night was cloudy, but not very dark; the light of the moon shone through the clouds, revealing objects at a short distance off. Gonzalo walked swiftly, with a thick sword-stick in his hand, and carrying a pistol in his pocket.
He felt very sad, and the test he was about to make filled him with mingled fear and remorse. If his wife were guilty, what a tragedy was at hand! And if she were not, he was acting a low part to suspect her honor. He continued his course as furtively as if he were a robber about to break into a house, hiding under the walls along the road when he heard steps, and trembling when he heard a voice, far off as it might be. The idea that an acquaintance might see him on foot at that time made him ashamed, feeling quite certain that his object would be guessed.
The fresh air seemed to pierce his very bones, although he so rarely felt cold. There was a soft, melancholy sound from the rustling of the wind in the tops of the trees which lined the road like black phantoms. Under one of these he thought he saw a figure, and, fearing to meet anybody who might know him, he jumped into the field; but, looking over the little wall, all that he saw was ruminating and recumbent cows. Then passing a workman's cottage, a window was suddenly thrown open and a woman appeared, which made him take to his heels under the shadow of the trees. As he proceeded on his way he felt a weight at his heart, and a thousand different ideas warred in his mind. He recollected the many delightful details of the first months of his married life: the sweet words and the ostensible proofs of love given him by his wife—his wife whose defects were those of all girls who are too much spoiled—and he began to think that he must be under some cursed hallucination, one of the thousand infamies invented by the enemies of his father-in-law to injure him, and he was on the point of returning to Sarrio and going back to bed when, on thinking over and weighing his grounds for suspicion, the recollection of the duke's departure from the house of his wife's parents, Ventura's frivolity and flirtations and the veiled yet persistent attack of the inimical journal, fired his blood and urged on his steps. Oh! shame on them if it were true! Better for them if they had never been born! And his hand tightening on the stick, he drew out the sword to make sure it was ready for use. The revolver did not suggest itself to him; he wanted to see and feast his eyes on the blood of the traitors.
When he had covered half the distance to Tejada he suddenly heard behind him the gallop of a horse. Without knowing why, his heart gave a terrible jump, and he quickly leaped into the adjoining fields and anxiously waited, looking over the wall, for the horse to pass by. Before two minutes were over it went by like a flash. He was perfectly able to recognize the duke's chestnut steed; he could not distinguish the grandee himself, as he was enveloped in a cloak, with a large hat drawn over his face; but if his eyes did not see him, his heart saw him with perfect clearness. He stood stunned, rooted to the ground, and he felt a peculiar failing of the legs as if they were going to give way. But the blood soon resumed its healthy circulation in his athletic frame, his iron muscles quickly reasserted their strength, and, without touching it with his hands, he cleared the six-foot wall which enclosed the field. He sprang into the middle of the road, and without an instant's delay he pursued the horse at a mad, wild speed as if he were silly enough to try and catch up to it. Although he was long-winded, he was out of breath long before he reached the estate, and he had to stop three or four times to recover himself. At last he arrived at the shrubbery and entered by the iron gate, which was only latched. Casting a glance round, he saw the duke's horse tied to a tree. He hastily continued his course, carefully avoiding making any noise, by one of the paths lined with coniferas leading to the house, and, as he knew all the approaches, he did not go to the door—of which he had the key with him—for fear that some servant would hear him, but he climbed by a vine up to the window of his father-in-law's room, which was always left open when he did not sleep at home. Unfortunately, it happened to be closed. Then he drew out his sword, and, putting it in the crack of the window, he raised the latch and thus effected an entrance.
He was, however, seen by one person—Cecilia. On one of the preceding nights she, occupying a room next to that of her sister, thought she heard a noise, and got up. She looked through the window toward the garden and saw Pachin, the servant, with another man she could not recognize. Nevertheless, an awful suspicion filled her with horror. The gait of the man, of whom she could only see the figure, was not that of a peasant. Gonzalo was sleeping that night at Sarrio; besides, her brother-in-law was much taller. Dreadfully upset by a terrible idea, she retired to rest again, but not to sleep. All the following day she was sad and preoccupied, and she inwardly determined to watch her sister to know for certain if her thoughts were chimerical or real. So she kept her eye on Pachin, and she noticed that on the very day that Gonzalo was to sleep at Sarrio he was given a commission by Ventura, although he was not the one to make the house purchases. When he returned she wanted to see what he had brought. It was a French novel, which she could not take into her hand, as Ventura seized hold of it and went off to her room. She then had no doubt but that there was a letter between the leaves, and she determined to watch that night and ascertain the truth.
After dinner she sat sewing, while Ventura read by the light of the lamp; and when it struck ten both sisters retired to their respective rooms.
Cecilia threw a cloak over her shoulders, put out the light, and sat by the window. She waited—one, two hours. When it was nearly twelve, she noticed two shadows among the trees, and, albeit with difficulty, she recognized Pachin and the man of the previous night, whom she now saw was the duke.
The two shadows quickly disappeared among the trees round the house. She stood petrified with horror; a wave of indignation rose in her heart and burst from her lips in the words:
"How infamous! How infamous!"
Then she seated herself on the window-sill, with her face pressed against the pane, as overwhelmed with confusion, shame, and distress as if she were the culprit. At the end of some minutes, standing with her terrified gaze fixed on the park, she saw another figure running with strange swiftness toward the house. She could not repress a cry of horror, and sprang to her feet as if she were worked by a spring; then stumbling in the dark through the furniture, she reached her sister's room, but it was all in darkness. For a moment she thought of calling her, but then she recollected that Ventura could not sin so close to her and her children. A few steps further, on turning the corner of a passage, she saw a light, and ran toward it. In the Persian chamber, of rotunda form, somewhat isolated from the rest of the house, there was a light; and she gave two little knocks at the door, saying through the keyhole:
"It is I, Ventura. Open! Gonzalo is here."
The door was then opened, and Ventura appeared, paler than death. The Duke of Tornos was at the other end of the room, and was turning to the window, with intent to jump out of it. But Cecilia ran toward him, and catching him by the arms, she cried:
"No, not that! It will be no use—Ventura, escape—To the kitchen! Gonzalo climbed up by papa's room."
The girl spoke in an imperious falsetto tone, with her eyes flaming.
Ventura required no repetition; for she precipitately left the room.
Then Cecilia forcibly dragged the duke to one of the sofas, and said:
"Sit down."
The magnate looked at her in stupefaction, and asked:
"Why?"
"Sit down, I tell you," said the girl in a fury, and at the same time putting her hands on his shoulders she pushed him down.
The duke at last sat down, and then Cecilia placed herself on his knees, and, throwing her arms around his neck, she put her lips on his cheek.
At that moment quick steps were heard in the corridor, the door was violently thrown open, and Gonzalo appeared with his drawn sword-stick. Cecilia, turning her head, uttered a cry; and the young man recognizing his sister-in-law, sheathed the arm which he carried, and, hastily reopening the door, he repaired in surprise and confusion to his old bridal chamber.
There Ventura was quietly reading by the light of a lamp. On seeing her husband before her she rose in surprise, saying:
"What is it? How is it you are here?"
An actress would gladly have bought from her that movement and tone of voice.
Gonzalo was taken aback, and knew not what to say; but he got out of the difficulty by exclaiming:
"Don't you know what scandal is going on in the house?"
"What is going on?" returned the girl, with a face so discomposed that if Gonzalo had been more observant by nature he would have seen that it could not have been solely due to his presence. He shut the door, and said in her ear:
"Your sister is in the Persian chamber with the duke! Don't you know anything about it? Tell the truth," he added, seizing her by the wrist.
Ventura was confounded; she hesitated; she trembled; she lowered her eyes admirably well, and finally said:
"Why should you want me to know, Gonzalo?"
"Don't lie, Ventura!" he exclaimed with a furious gesture; but his heart was filled with immense and infinite relief.
"I am telling you the truth—I know nothing about it—but I suspected something. That is why I was alarmed. When you came in I was thinking of going to Cecilia's room to see if she were there."
"How shameful! How scandalous! But this infamy! Some course must be taken—this must be put an end to without anybody hearing of it."
"Yes, yes; but what do you want us to do?"
"I don't know. I will speak to your father—No, not to your father—it would be a fearful blow to the poor man. I will speak to the duke, and we'll see if he resists!"
At that moment they heard a noise in the adjoining room.
"Cecilia has gone to her room," said Ventura. "I will go now and speak to her myself. It will all be put a stop to, and remain a secret. I don't wish you to compromise yourself, Gonzalo mine," she added, throwing her arms around his neck. Gonzalo made a gesture of scorn.
"No, no; I don't want to. It is better for me to speak to Cecilia—wait a minute."
Her husband stopped her as she was leaving the room, and said in a low voice:
"Don't speak cruelly to her. Try and be prudent. It is infamous of him to have thus abused his friendship with the family. What a wretched creature!"
Ventura left the room, and repaired to that of her sister, trembling with alarm. The heroic girl was standing in the middle of the room, with her arms by her side and her eyes fixed on the ground. Ventura carefully closed the door, and embracing her, she murmured in a tremulous voice:
"Oh, my sister! thank you, thank you!"
But Cecilia roughly repulsed her with a gesture of scornful pride, exclaiming:
"I did it for him, and not for you!"
CHAPTER XXX
A FANCY DRESS BALL AT SARRIO
CECILIA would never do it again—she saw the wickedness of her conduct; she was sorry to have given Gonzalo's enemies ground for insulting his wife's honor, and she had given her word, and solemnly sworn, that those nocturnal meetings would not occur again.
Such was the message that Ventura delivered that night to her husband.
During the succeeding days he showed neither anger nor even severity against the delinquent. All his anger and ill-will were against the duke, whom he accused of having iniquitously abused the confidence of his father-in-law to arouse in poor Cecilia feelings that had hitherto lain dormant. He treated her with kindness, even to indulgence, such as he might have accorded a sick child in the desire to show her that she had lost none of his affection.
But this kindness was so humiliating to her, showing as it did that the man was quite contented in his conviction of her guilt, that she repulsed it, and in spite of her strenuous efforts to do so she failed to appear grateful for so much generosity.
She shut herself up in her room, without attending as before to the care of the children, and at meal-times she looked so grave and was so quiet that Don Rosendo's notice was attracted, absorbed as the great patrician was in the higher sphere of the battle of thought which was now being waged in Sarrio.
And with his peculiar perspicacity he saw that it was a question of moral and physical weakness proceeding from the monotonous country life. Youth has its own needs, and these must be attended to.
"You are ill, Cecilia. You look pale and sad. You must leave here and live a freer life, in surroundings more befitting young people. We will go to Madrid for a couple of months in the spring. In the country you get asphyxiated like a bird under the bell of a pneumatic machine."
This great thinker occasionally used happy illustrations, drawn, like the present one, from physical and natural science. From the brightness with which the girl concurred with the suggestion he concluded that he had as usual found the key to the matter.
Ventura looked as usual. The terrible scene that had been enacted, the sacrifice of her sister, which she knew had incurred her righteous contempt, had not affected her. She went on just the same as before, just as careful of herself and careless of others as she had ever been. Nevertheless, whenever she encountered the clear, penetrating eyes of her sister she turned her own away. From the night of the affair she avoided being alone with her, which was very easy, as Cecilia had no wish to exchange a word with the treacherous girl.
Gonzalo feeling quite sure of his wife, reveled in his sense of security, and a recrudescence of affection arose between the couple.
Ventura had made him promise he would never again sleep away from home, and to this he agreed.
Thinking of his sister-in-law's sin, he frequently said to himself:
"The Lord preserve me from still waters, and I will take care of the running ones."
And henceforth he not only pardoned the lightness and frivolity of his wife's vain disposition, which had once so much disgusted him, but came to regard these defects as a guarantee of her fidelity.
"There is nobody without some faults," he would say to himself, "and I would prefer her to have those that are aboveboard."
Five or six days after the event related, "The Youth of Sarrio" published a paragraph, insinuating the same idea as that which had led Gonzalo to make the memorable nocturnal visit to Tejada. The young man read it without emotion and with a smile on his lips, laughing to himself at the mistake under which his enemies were laboring. Nevertheless, as it was, after all, an insult to have such things written, he determined to chastise its insolent authors, albeit in a matter-of-fact fashion. Therefore at nightfall he abruptly entered the office of "The Youth," when not more than three of the staff were present, one of whom was the traitor Sinforoso Suarez. Without saying a word Gonzalo fell upon them tooth and nail, with so much force and rage that they utterly succumbed to the attack. When one of them did rise from the ground a tremendous blow knocked him down again; and not only were they leveled, but the tables and cupboards were also overthrown, making more noise than an earthquake. When tired of administering this corporal punishment, he quietly left the place, laughing. A few people responded to the cries for help, but he said to them:
"It is nothing, señores; but the managers of 'The Youth' have had a thrashing up there; and, I say, look here! go up and tell those fellows that if they continue with these libels I shall be obliged to send them to prison."
When the facts of the case were known the event caused some commotion. The members of the Cabin were in a frenzy, but Gonzalo inspired such deep respect, not so much from his position of mayor, but from the terror of his fist, that they at last resigned themselves to overlooking the drubbing administered to their confederates.
The Carnival went by without any great festivity, for Sarrio was no longer the scene of the processions and cavalcades which had once been the talk of the province while converting the town into a miniature Venice. At one time all the inhabitants took part in the great burst of gaiety. The rich not only decked themselves befittingly for the occasion, but they started subscriptions for the importation of gorgeous costumes from Madrid. The cavalcades were incessant and indefatigable in directing showers of almonds, caramels, and aniseed at the windows. The balls at the Lyceum, if not as brilliant, were as entertaining and as bright as those in the most opulent palaces of the court. Oh, the Carnival of Sarrio! Who in the south of the province, where these events took place, will cease to have grateful, and tender recollections of it?
But all had changed with the Guelph and Ghibelline-like political strife between the members of the Club and the Cabin. Every one remained in seclusion at home, and the streets were only favored with the sight of some bold mummer, who afforded delight to the crowd of boys in his wake.
The Titanic efforts of Don Mateo were powerless to awake any enthusiasm about balls at the Lyceum. It was in vain that he conferred with the marriageable girls of the place to get promises to help him, which promises were easily gained, but when it came to interviewing papa, he knitted his brows and gravely said:
"Well, we will see, Don Mateo; we will see." And this "we will see" generally signified a prudent abstention. For there might be there Mr. This or Mr. That, with whom the good papa was not on terms of acquaintance.
The previous year Don Mateo had tried to revive the old Piñate ball of glorious renown, known to all good Sarrio folks as the chief feature of the first Sunday in Lent, but the mayor, who was then Maza, under cover of religion and trying to curry favor with the clergy of the town, would not give permission. This year the indefatigable old man returned to the task with increased ardor. Gonzalo made no objection to granting his permission. Then he stimulated the interest of the place to such an extent, by laying stress upon the extraordinary wonders and surprises of the famous globe, ordered from Bordeaux, that he ended by exciting a universal wish to be present that evening at the Lyceum.
So for the first time in Sarrio for several years the salon of the society promised a full attendance. During the days preceding the Sunday the talk and preparations of the young people drowned the disagreeable sounds of politics. It was like a moment's respite for the weary town. Directly Venturita heard that a ball was really in preparation, she ordered from her dressmaker a most magnificent dress to represent Queen Elizabeth of England, and one for Cecilia as a lady of the time of Louis XV. The latter at first declined to go to the ball, but Gonzalo made such a point of it, doubtless to rouse her a little from the melancholy to which she had lately fallen a prey, that she at last gave in, and several afternoons were employed in going to Sarrio, trying on the dresses and giving instructions to the dressmaker.
The longed-for Sunday at length arrived, and Gonzalo, who was very busy all the morning, lunched in Sarrio and returned about dusk to Tejada to dine with his family, and to escort his wife and sister-in-law to the ball.
When he arrived the ladies were dressing themselves in their different rooms, and a little after the usual hour they both appeared in the corridor in their elegant attire.
Cecilia was bright and loquacious, as those of a serious temperament are in moments of excitement; and she seemed to have shaken off the black thoughts that had lately cast such a gloom over her face.
Before taking his seat at table Gonzalo tried some playful jokes with her, as well as with his wife, and during the dinner he continued to laugh at their expense in his own genial, hearty way.
"Will not your majesty take a little sausage?" he said, addressing his wife. And then, delighted with his remark, he gave vent to a long, loud roar of laughter, like those given by barbarous kings at their festivities, while his enormous frame heaved convulsively.
His healthy, manly spirits were infectious, and no one could help laughing when he started.
Ventura was very amiable that evening, and she tapped her husband on the shoulder and begged him to be quiet, as she could not eat in peace.
When dinner was over and they were taking coffee, either through laughing too much or from some other cause, the young wife complained of indisposition; her dinner had disagreed with her. She expressed a wish to withdraw, retired to her room, and shortly returned, saying that she was not well, and that her head was aching. Tea was made for her, and she lay on the sofa for some time, but the pain and distemper remained.
"Look here! you go to the ball, and I will go to bed," she said, raising her head.
Cecilia, suddenly filled with a suspicion, replied: "No; I will stay, too."
"How silly," exclaimed the invalid, "to deprive yourself of the only entertainment Sarrio has given for some time on such a frivolous pretext!"
"Yes," replied Cecilia with the same gravity; "I shall remain."
"But you know this indisposition hardly causes me any suffering. I am rather bilious; four or five hours' sleep will quite restore me."
"Well, I shall remain."
"Then I shall be obliged to go, ill or not ill," she said impatiently, as she rose from the sofa.
"Ventura is right, bag of bones," said Gonzalo, taking his sister-in-law by the shoulders, and shaking her affectionately. "It is nothing. I have had it a hundred times. Why should you give up going to the ball? Here, here! get your mantilla. Ramon has already put the horses in; it is more than half-past nine," he added, pushing her toward the door. Cecilia could not resist him, but before leaving the room she cast a piercing glance at her sister, who avoided meeting it by resuming her seat. Ramon was, in truth, waiting for them with the family coach. The largest carriage was used that evening, as Don Rosendo and Pablito, who were dining in town, were to return with them in the small hours of the morning. During the drive Gonzalo was still chatty and merry, trying to amuse his sister-in-law, who had resumed her taciturn manner. The young man thought that she was still tormented by the recollection of the fatal scene already narrated, and so made every effort to distract her.
Arrived at the Lyceum, Gonzalo and Cecilia went in, arm in arm, and they crossed a large anteroom, where a crowd of young men made way for them, and greeted them with the familiarity usual in little towns. There were several ladies in the salon, all in fancy dress, although the majority of them, like Cecilia, wore no masks. This was an innovation in Sarrio.
For the last five years the balls at the Lyceum had been dreary affairs. But, thanks to the perseverance of Mateo, the flame of pleasure burst that night into a brightly burning bonfire. The youth of the town entered the empty salon like an overflowing torrent, making the place resound with the bright tones of their talk and laughter.
"Alvara, do you know me? do you know me? Why don't you marry? For you are on the road to old age."
"Periquito, do you like me? Why do you wear a mask? You don't want one. You are not taken with faces, and there you are right. Look here and look there. Eh? Ta-ta, ta-ta, Periquito."
"Hollo, Delaunay! Hollo, monsieur! How goes the aerial tramway? What will you have next? What a long head you have! It is a pity you are so unfortunate. They say you are not a practical man, but you knew how to settle the 'Rat's' daughter. Good-by. Good-by."
"And here's Sinforoso. When are they going to give you Cipriana's hand? They treat you very badly. Why don't you threaten to go back to the Club?"
It was a party of ladies in black dominoes who cut these jokes, which were at times too strong. The majority of them were old, for the younger ones liked to show their faces and the turn of their figures in some historical costume. There were costumes of Venetian and Roman ladies, costumes of the lower empire, costumes of the time of Louis XV, of the Directory, of Philip II, and others, down to the most recent period. There were also gitanas, necromancers, slaves, and many other fanciful and romantic costumes not admitting classification. There was one representing a starry night, another a tulip, and another a carrier pigeon with a letter at her neck.
The men, as a rule, were not in costume. They wore the long, full frock coat which only came out on such occasions. Nevertheless, some wore a domino, which permitted them to talk to the girls they admired without fear of being interrupted by the mama.
A party of young fellows belonging to the Cabin conceived the happy idea of dressing up Don Jaime Morin as a bib-and-tucker young lady. When dressed up like this they told him that he would be better disguised with paint than with a mask, and he concurred with the suggestion. A young fellow then took up a box of paints and a brush, and pretending to dip it into several colors, he passed the brush several times over his face, but it had only been dipped in water.
Morin asked to see himself in a looking-glass, but the mischievous youths took good care not to give it to him. They all cried out: "But how capital you are, Don Jaime! How grotesquely you are painted! Your own mother would not know you!" Upon the strength of these words the good Morin allowed himself to be carried off to the Lyceum, where his young friends advised him to joke certain young ladies, to which he replied that his jokes would prove a shock to their nerves. And in effect, no sooner was he in the salon than he cried out to a young lady, in a falsetto voice:
"Hollo, Rosarita! what have you done with Anselmo? We know that you throw him a letter out of the window every night at ten o'clock."
"But, Don Jaime!" exclaimed the girl, looking at him in surprise, "how did you find that get up?"
"The devil! She knew me," said the good Morin, withdrawing. He then turned to another of the fair sex, with the same result. "It is strange," he said at last, "they all know me at once. It must be the voice, because although I am painted with a vengeance—"
He was full of these reflections when a bony hand seized him from behind.
"Great ass! booby! idiot! Who got you up like that?"
It was his beloved spouse, the ingenious, severe, Doña Brigida.
"Get along, stupid! You're always the laughing-stock of every place!" and she pushed the poor fellow out of the salon. The good lady, who was dressed in a domino and mask, went with him as far as the anteroom, where she left him, and returned to the ballroom to carry out her own devices, as we shall see.
Surrounded by a group of dominoes stood the kind Don Feliciano Gomez, whose shining, bald, pyramidical head overtopped the circle of ladies around him as they cracked their insufferable jokes, which sometimes bordered on insults.
"Feliciano, poor fellow! So your sisters let you come to the ball! At what time will they send for you? They say that Doña Petra beats you when you are late; is that a fact? Poor Feliciano! how strict your sisters are! Well, as they did not let you marry, they ought to give you a little more liberty."
The good merchant, without taking offense, gave kind, smiling replies to the harpies, who at last grew tired of his patience, and left him in peace.
CHAPTER XXXI
THE ENLIGHTENMENT OF GONZALO
THE charming Pablito, correctly attired in a frock coat, with a white buttonhole bouquet, was meanwhile courting a beautiful Jewish girl, sister of an artillery officer, who had just arrived. The poor girl was overjoyed at seeing at her feet the richest and most eligible young man in the town. What smiles! what meaning looks! The girls of the place cast derisive glances at her, as much as to say: "Enjoy yourself a little, unhappy one; you will soon be disillusioned."
Pablito, as he bent over her in a submissive way, whispered in her ear such ardent and ingenious phrases as:
"As I was coming from Tejada yesterday, I saw you with your father, as pretty as ever."
"What nonsense! I saw you, too. You were driving an open carriage. You drive very well."
"That is flattery, Carmencita. To drive nowadays is nothing. Anybody can do it. If you had only seen those horses when I bought them! One was a caution. It takes about a year to let them have their head, driving them every day. Don Agapito's coachman nearly spoiled them altogether, especially the handsome one, don't you know, the left-hand one, a little darker than the other; he was quite spoiled. If he had fallen into other hands he would not have been worth more than 2,000 reales now. But now he is better than the other. It is a question of patience, don't you see?"
The beautiful Jewess remonstrated. "Come, don't make light of what we all know you do well."
"Patience and a little practise," repeated Pablito, on a bed of roses. Then he entered full swing on what he considered constituted a good driver: a firm, gentle hand, a quick eye, prompt castigation without loss of temper at any misdemeanor, and a perfect knowledge of horses, for without a careful, thoughtful study of the temperaments of the animals it is impossible to drive systematically.
Carmencita listened, quite entranced. Cecilia had not been long in the ballroom before she was joined by Paco Flores, the engineer, who had asked her in marriage through the mouth of Gonzalo. From the time the girl refused him the young man, who, as we have seen, at first thought only of winning a modest, capable wife with money, fell more in love with her, and became unremitting in his attentions. Self-love always plays a great part in love, and it is not often easy, even for the individual himself, to distinguish the one feeling from the other.
When it was seen in Sarrio how persistent the engineer was in courting Belinchon's eldest daughter, it was thought that he was only anxious for her dowry; but this was a mistake, for Flores was really in love. If Cecilia had become suddenly poor he would have made her his wife all the same, for her behavior only increased his admiration of her. She always received his attentions and politeness with kindness and gratitude. There was no fear that she would withdraw from the window when he passed by, nor snub him if she met him at any friend's house, nor commit any of those little rudenesses that constitute the delight of the majority of girls.
She treated him like a good friend, and accorded him the kindness due to a person one esteems; but as soon as the engineer wanted to go further, if he asked for a little love, a ray of hope, he was met the next day with the same firm, gentle, persistent refusal. And the worst of it was, Cecilia had no pleasure in refusing, but pain, as it hurt her to disappoint a friend. This feeling was an additional blow to the suitor's self-love.
After dancing a waltz they sat down to rest in a corner of the salon. Flores had taken her fan and was fanning her respectfully.
"I should like to spend my life like this," he said in a sincere tone.
"Oh, you would soon get tired of it," returned Cecilia, smiling.
"Will you try me?"
The girl was silent.
"You are not, Cecilia, one of those women of whom one easily tires. You have treasures in your heart and mind that would always keep the man who loves you at your feet. You have had my heart for more than two years, and instead of wearying I feel myself more and more attached to you. I adore you more and more desperately, to the point of being the laughing-stock of the place."
"That is nonsense," she replied, albeit touched by the fire and feeling that Flores had given to his words. "It is not the same thing seeing a woman a little while now and again, and speaking to her of this and that, as having her continually with you."
"What should I like better, Cecilia, than to have you always with me!" returned the engineer in a low, trembling voice, playing with the fan, with his eyes on the ground. "To consecrate my life to your service, and to adore you on my knees. I know that you would make any man happy, but no one as much as I, for I know the great qualities of your soul, and I divine secret feelings in your heart quite unknown to others. It is terrible that you will not give me the remotest hope that some day, distant as it may be, my love will conquer you, and you will accept me as a slave."
"I accept you as a friend, as a great friend," said the girl gravely.
"Friend, bah! This friendship, Cecilia, is a stone wall between you and me. I understand that I do not deserve to win your love—that there are a hundred young men in the town who could ask it with a better right; but what is so strange, and what encourages and discourages me at the same time, is that until now you have chosen nobody. Your heart remains empty and indifferent—that is to say, unless you have some hidden love."
Cecilia shivered slightly and raised her eyes a little to the place where the voice of Gonzalo was audible. Then she replied with more severity than usual:
"Cease studying my heart, Flores. In the first place, because it is most probably as commonplace as that of the majority of women, and in the second place, because, if there were something hidden in it, it would not be easy for you to discover it."
"Don't be offended, Cecilia. This study is only a proof of my interest in you."
"I am not offended," replied the girl, trying to smile. "I am going to speak to Rosario. Will you escort me to her?"
In the anteroom, only separated from the ballroom by a few pillars, the grave fathers were chatting and casting pleased looks to where their daughters were disporting themselves. Sometimes a masked lady detached herself from the dancing and came to rally them, and sometimes, being a contemporary, would make them laugh till they coughed, and then brought out some of their old stories.
Don Rosendo was chatting in a corner with Don Melchor de las Cuevas. He was laying before him one of his grand and magnificent projects of which the port was now the object. It is impossible to imagine how much more versed in knowledge Belinchon had become in the last few years, and, as with all great men, it was knowledge more intuitive than studied. At first, when he wrote for "The Light" on any subject of which he was ignorant, he was reticent, vacillating, and timid, but as he grew conversant with the topics of the day, and had at his command a quantity of hackneyed phrases, and, above all, when he possessed an encyclopedic dictionary in fifteen volumes, which did not cost him less than 2,000 reales, he tackled any point with tooth and nail. There was not a subject, or scientific, social, economic, and political problem, upon which Don Rosendo did not undertake to throw some light. If it was a question of the plague which was decimating the cattle, Don Rosendo sought in his dictionary for the words cattle, horse, bull, sheep, forage, live stock, etc., and as soon as he had read what was said on the subject he took up his pen, and his journalistic genius was brought to bear on the production of one or several articles pregnant with philosophy and erudition.
At the time the question of the port came up, he lost no time in looking in the dictionary for the words port, dockyard, tides, dredges, winds, etc. Seven consecutive articles were written and published to show the necessity of making a dockyard for Sarrio at a spot called Foril. He posed as a consummate seaman, used to navigating the seas and grown gray in the study of hydraulic problems. However, the Señor de las Cuevas, although less eloquent in such a vocabulary of maritime terms, some of which he did not even know, writhed at the wordy explanation given him by Don Rosendo, and ended by clapping him on the shoulder, and saying:
"You can disabuse your mind, Belinchon, about your dockyard. When the wind is in the northeast no sardines come in."
The one who enjoyed the entertainment most was an old man, the good Don Mateo, to whom it was entirely due. To him the ball represented one of the great triumphs of his life. It had cost him more trouble than enough to assemble together the cantankerous townsfolk. He never stopped all the evening, going, or rather dragging himself, from place to place, giving orders to the servants, the wardens, and the orchestra.
"Gervasio, now for the plates of sweetmeats! Take one down each side, you fellows! What do you want, Señor Anselmo? Do the boys want a polka instead of a waltz? Then let them play a polka. Tell the young men that there are ladies in the dressing-room waiting for partners. Marcelino! where has Marcelino got to? Go down to the porch, for some vagabond has thrown a stone at the lamp and broken it. But, Don Manuel, it is not more than two o'clock! You won't take away the girls yet, and the piñata [Jack Horner basket] not yet broken."
The good gentleman was rejuvenated that evening. He shared the pleasure of the young people as mystics rejoice in a general communion. His dark eyes occasionally looked over his spectacles at the wooden globe hanging in the middle of the room, and he gave a chuckle of delight. The beautiful work of art from Bordeaux was painted with blue and white stripes, and there hung from beneath it a quantity of ribbons of various colors, all of which, with one exception, were held by young ladies ready to pull them, and the one who had the ribbon that opened the piñata won the globe, which was doubtless filled with sweets, and, according to report, with very pretty knickknacks. Gonzalo, in the middle of the party, seemed also in good spirits, being sometimes with one lady, sometimes with another. He had danced a polka with his sister-in-law, and a polka and a waltz with two friends of his wife. His tall, colossal form rose like a tower above the heads of all.
"How cheerful you are, señor mayor!" said a lady of the lower middle class.
"One has to profit by Ventura's absence," returned the young man with a laugh. "Where is your husband, Magdalena?"
"Oh, somewhere about."
"Come, dance this polka with me, and let us make hay while the sun shines."
"I can't. I am engaged to Peña for it."
While he was joking with those about him, a woman enveloped in a black domino, with a mask of the same hue, never lost sight of him for a moment, sometimes standing at one spot, sometimes at another, but always at a short distance from him, while her two shining, fiery eyes were visible through the holes of her mask. It was Doña Brigida, the ingenious wife of the spendthrift Morin, who was watching for the right moment, like the baritone in "Un Ballo in Maschera," to strike the blow. The victim in that case was a prince, in this it was only a mayor. The reasons of the eminent lady for meditating this crime would not appear so weighty as those of the baritone in the eyes of a man, but they certainly would to any woman.
"The Light of Sarrio," in its anxiety to wound all members of the Cabin, with their relations and their friends, had for the last three or four months taken up Morin's wife as a theme. Thus all her domestic secrets were shown up: her married life, the dependence and degradation of Morin were caricatured, while all the anecdotes, more or less funny, that were the current talk of the town, appeared in print, with the addition of several others, discovered or invented by the malignant editors.
And as if this were not enough, there was not a number of the paper in question which did not make mention in some way or other of Doña Brigida's wig, which fact thus became public property in Sarrio. The anger, the rage, the hate, and the desire for revenge which all this aroused in the lady it is impossible to imagine. Suffice it to say that when she met one of the managers of "The Light" in the street she turned livid, and it was only by a great effort that she restrained herself from springing at his throat like a mad cat. Hitherto she had had no opportunity of satisfying this thirst for revenge with which she was consumed. But now, with Gonzalo before her eyes, she was filled with delight, she trembled with eagerness, like a tiger in sight of his prey. Taking advantage of a moment during which nobody was speaking to him, she came closer behind him, and swiftly placing herself in front of him, she hissed, more than said:
"Gonzalo, why are you so stupid? You are the laughing-stock of everybody. There is not a person in the room who does not know that your wife is this moment with the Duke of Tornos."
The young man was stunned, as if he had received a blow on the forehead; he turned deadly pale, and then made as though he would tear off her mask; but that was impossible, for Doña Brigida had slipped away like an eel among the crowd, and as there were many ladies in the same costume, it was impossible to know which was the one he sought. Then Gonzalo quickly left the room, the words he had heard ringing in his head like hammer strokes. He feared he must fall. In the anteroom he replied with a stupid smile to the remarks made to him; and his uncle, Don Melchor, seeing him so pale, came up to him, and said:
"What is the matter, Gonzalo? Are you ill?"
"Yes; I am going to get a cup of tea."
"I'll go with you."
"No, no; I shall be back directly." And he ran off, leaving his uncle standing at the door.
He descended the staircase, and found himself in the street without knowing what he was doing. The fresh night air cooled his head and revived his memory. He suddenly determined to go to Tejada. He looked about for the carriage, but not seeing it, he thought Ramon had not left home yet. He looked at his watch; it was only half-past two. He took a few quick steps toward his father-in-law's house, when he recollected he had no hat or overcoat on. Returning to the Lyceum, he told the first servant he met in the hall to bring him down his hat and coat.
Arrived at the house, he found Ramon had already put the horse to the carriage.
"Ramon, drive me as fast as possible to Tejada at once."
The coachman looked at him in surprise.
"Is madame worse?"
"I think so," he replied, getting into the carriage. "But stop at the corner by the mill, you understand?"
"You are afraid of disturbing madame, eh?" queried the coachman with great astuteness. Gonzalo did not reply.
The horses went off at a trot, making the carriage jolt along the stony, uneven road of the town. Gonzalo did not notice how the movement shook every bone in his body, nor the change to the highroad on leaving the town. All his attention was concentrated on one point. Was it true, or was it not?
Strangely enough, without himself knowing why, the conviction that his wife had deceived him entered his soul and took possession of it. When he went to Tejada on foot, about two months before, he had not wished to harbor this conviction; however much he tried to convince himself that the insinuation of the paper was true, his head and his heart declined to admit the idea. Now it was quite different; he tried to think and to persuade himself that the accusation of the masked lady was only a vile exhibition of the envy and jealousy of some hidden enemy, and yet he could not believe it.
When the carriage stopped he had no idea of the time he had been driving; it might just as well have been a day as a minute. He awoke from his dream, and jumped out of the carriage.
"Now go back for the family," he said to Ramon; "and don't say you have brought me; there is no need to trouble them."
He then turned slowly toward the gate of the park some two hundred feet off, while the carriage went down an opposite road. Arrived at the gate, he pushed it with a trembling hand; it was open, like the previous time. He felt a chill at his heart, which obliged him to stop. He finally entered cautiously, and looked up to see if the key were inside; but it was not there. The night was neither clear nor dark; the sky was overcast, and a fine rain was falling which penetrated to the skin. It made no sound as it fell upon the trees and bushes of the park, but when disturbed by a gust of wind a quantity of drops came down in a regular gust, which made a quick, passing, ringing sound on the ground.
Gonzalo suddenly recollected that he had no weapon with him; but then he shrugged his shoulders in scorn born of the absolute confidence that in the case of necessity he would not be found wanting. He looked about on all sides to see if he could see the duke's horse, but instead of seeing it he caught sight of the shadow of a man disappearing among the trees; so he ran after him, but he quickly vanished.
He thought it was Pachin, the man-servant, and he then suspected that he was the traitor who had opened the gate to the duke. Ever since the night when he had discovered his sister-in-law with the grandee, his incessant efforts to find out who had helped the duke into the house had been fruitless. He could not have suspected anybody less than such an old servant as Pachin. Then, as he thought that the man might possibly go and warn the traitors, he continued his course toward the house as quickly as possible.
He once more climbed to his father-in-law's room, but this time only as far as the window. Swiftly on tiptoe he automatically turned to the Persian chamber, as if, having met the duke there once, he must necessarily be there again. Great, therefore, was his surprise to find it dark and deserted. He stood a moment riveted to the spot, but suddenly, struck by an idea, he ran to the room where Ventura slept. The door was locked from the inside. He called out quickly:
"Ventura! Ventura!"
"Who is there?" cried his wife from within in a frightened, strange voice.
"It is I. Open, open directly."
"I am in bed."
"No matter, open at once."
"Let me dress."
"No; open directly, or I'll break the door."
"I am coming! I am coming!"
The young man waited a minute, but instead of the door he thought he heard the window of the room being opened.
"Open, Ventura!" he cried in a rage. And receiving no answer, he gave such a blow at the door with his powerful cyclopean leg that it burst the lock with a loud noise. The room was in darkness.
"Ventura! Ventura!" he cried.
No answer. He struck a match with a trembling hand, and gave a look round the room. His wife, pale and affrighted, was cowering in a corner in her night-dress. Gonzalo turned his eyes from her and looked all round in search of some one, until he noticed the window half open. Throwing it up and leaning out, he saw something white running under the trees—it was the figure of a man in his shirt-sleeves.
Gonzalo did not stop to climb down from the window; he took a flying leap into the garden, and darted after the fugitive like an arrow. But the man had already reached the iron gate, opened it, and disappeared. Gonzalo was not far behind him, but an instant later he saw him on horseback, under the shadow of the trees, dash down the road in the direction of Nieva.
Inspired, nevertheless, with an insane hope of catching him, Gonzalo rushed back to the stables, took out his beautiful saddle-horse, and putting on a bridle, he jumped on his bare back, and also took the road to Nieva with all speed possible. He had neither spurs nor whip, but the brave animal obeyed his voice, or rather his roars, and went at a furious pace. The eyes of the horse saw the road, but the rider was only conscious of a black abyss, which seemed about to swallow him up, and the old elms that lined the road seemed to fly by like a ghastly procession of phantoms.
On, on, on.
The noble brute flew on as if impelled by a goad for about half an hour.
"It is impossible," said Gonzalo to himself, "that his horse is better than mine. He had at least a start of two gunshots of me!" But just as he was thinking this, and was hesitating about reining in the horse, he passed by one that stood saddled, but riderless, by the side of the road. He made his own steed halt with some difficulty, and turning back to see what it was, he recognized the duke's English mare.
"Oh," he roared, "now I've got you!" For he thought his enemy must have had a fall. He dismounted and searched the ground, but no rider did he find. Then he said to himself: "Perhaps hearing the gallop of my horse, and fearing that it would overtake him, he has hidden himself somewhere about here."
He then sprang into the neighboring field, and made as careful a search as he could by the light of matches: he looked behind the hedges, he searched the brambles, then he went some way along the bank of a stream on his left, but his box of matches came to an end before he could discover his enemy, so he retraced his steps, mad with rage.
If the Duke of Tornos were hidden somewhere about there, he must have had an anxious time of it.
CHAPTER XXXII
RETRIBUTION
AFTER seeing her husband disappear through the window, Ventura dressed herself quickly and left the room to find a servant. Just at this moment Pachin arrived with a disconcerted face, carrying a light.
"The señorito is rushing after the duke across the garden," he said in a hardly audible voice.
"Will he catch him?" asked the unfaithful wife, very pale, although somewhat recovered from her fright.
"I don't think so; the duke has his horse tied to the Antony vine. He had the start, and, once mounted, it will be impossible to overtake him."
"Where shall I hide myself? If he comes back he will kill me."
"It will be best to leave the house. Come with me."
The girl then followed the servant along the passages, down the back staircase and out by the kitchen door. Pachin wished to take her to the parish priest's house, which was near to the estate. When they were entering the garden they saw Gonzalo running toward the house, and they only just had time to hide behind the Washingtonia close to the dining-room. From there they saw him go into the stable, bring out a horse and go off full gallop, and Ventura thought she would die of fright.
"No, no; I don't want to go to the priest's house. He will return soon, and the priest could not defend me from him—he is a poor old man—I want to go to Sarrio."
"But, señorita, to Sarrio at this hour, and raining?"
"Is there no carriage?"
"There is the landau, but there are no horses. Wait a bit. I will alter the shafts, and we will harness Señorita, Pablo's mare—I don't answer for her going in it."
"Capital! capital!"
Pachin carried out his idea as quickly as possible. Ventura got into the carriage, and off they went.
Although at first the mare rebelled a little, once on the highroad the thought of the stable at Sarrio, her usual abode, made her go very well.
The girl told the servant to drive her to Don Rudesindo's house, as she was on rather intimate terms with his wife. There she remained until two or three days after the event, when her father took her to Madrid, and from thence to Ocaña, where she was shut up in a convent by the joint arrangement of Gonzalo and Rosendo. The great patrician, as we know, was not much in favor of positive religions, but "as long as society provided no other coercive measures for certain moral transgressions, he was perforce led to look for them from old social institutions, deficient and vitiated as they might be."
We must now return to Gonzalo. He passed the whole day locked in his room in a state of agitation approaching madness. The only person who ventured to enter his room was Don Rosendo, who talked to him in a kind and dignified style, adorned with periphrases and florid periods befitting his character as a writer. He took a seat by his side and cursed his daughter, "whose inexpressible conduct, defying [Don Rosendo had lately taken a great fancy to this verb] at once morality, law, and social practise, had placed her beyond the pale of all legal and family protection."
It was he who suggested shutting her up for a time in a convent. Poor Gonzalo, overwhelmed and distraught, never answered a word, but listened to him while walking backward and forward across the room with his hands in his pockets and his eyes wet and gloomy. Once only he raised his head to say with firmness:
"Take her where you like—but don't let her see my children. I do not want her lips to touch them."
At dusk a servant came to tell Gonzalo that two gentlemen had arrived in a trap, who wished to see him on urgent business. Guessing immediately the import of the matter he said at once: "Show them in."
Two gentlemen from Nieva then entered. One was the Marquis of Soldevilla, a middle-aged man, quite bald, with a complexion marked with erysipelas, and black teeth. He talked in a loud tone to seem at his ease. The other, named Golarzo, was old, gray, and a man of few words or friends. They came on behalf of the duke to arrange a serious matter that had happened the previous night—about an affair of honor. The duke did not wish to rob the Señor de las Cuevas of the reparation due to him. To run away on such an occasion was not according to his habits nor his character, neither was it befitting his social status. But at the same time, in the interest of Gonzalo and himself, he expected that all would be executed with as much privacy as possible.
Without wincing, and affecting a calmness he was far from feeling, Gonzalo put no check to the loquacity of the marquis, which bordered on impertinence.
"All right," he said, when he had finished. "I accept the challenge, and I am ready to fulfil it when it suits you. But it is rather odd," he added with a nervous laugh, which badly cloaked the anger which consumed him. "It is rather odd for the señor duke to send the challenge, seeing that I am the injured party. This course seems to me more prompted by fear than by gentlemanliness."
"Señor de las Cuevas," broke in the ex-colonel with acerbity, "we can not permit these derogatory remarks to be made in our presence."
Gonzalo looked at him in an absent way as if he had not heard him, and then continued:
"In fact I could, and even I ought to reject his challenge, because it is not customary for decent men to fight scoundrels, even if they bear the title of king."
"Señor de las Cuevas," exclaimed Golarza, rising in anger from his seat, "this is insufferable, and I will not permit you to speak like this."
"The Duke of Tornos is a scoundrel, and you know he is," he returned, looking him straight in the eyes in a provocative way.
The fact was, it would have required some courage to withstand Gonzalo at that moment. Golarza turned white and, rising, said:
"This is your house, therefore I retire."
"Do you want me to say it to you outside?" he exclaimed impetuously as he also rose from his seat.
"Señores," cried the marquis in his cracked voice, "calm yourselves. Golarza, you have no right to get angry. The sort of injury that our patron has done the gentleman (and I am sorry to have to refer to it) excuses his want of appreciation of his character. I think from the moment he accepts the duel he has sufficiently atoned for the tone of his remarks, the outcome of the natural anger to which he is a prey."
Gonzalo felt inclined to hurl the table beside him at the fulsome peacemaker; but he stood motionless and silent because of his ardent desire to come face to face with the duke.
The ex-colonel resumed his seat at the entreaty of his companion, and either from spite, or from fear of the young man's irascible state, he did not utter another word. Gonzalo said that he would depute two friends, who would arrange with them the details for their meeting at Nieva in the morning. In the meanwhile they would be returning to the town, unless they would do him the honor of being his guests that night.
The friends of the duke thanked him and proceeded to withdraw. When they were standing ready to go, Gonzalo, addressing himself to the marquis, said:
"I request that your conferences with regard to this duel, and the duel itself, may take place in Nieva—because—" he added in a tone half sarcastic, half tremulous, "strange as it may appear to you, in this house there are people who love me."
The seconds promised to concede to this wish and they then returned to Nieva.
After Cecilia saw them depart she haunted her brother-in-law's door without daring to go in. But coming out in search of Pablito the young man met her in the half-dark passage; when the girl, seizing him by the hand, fixed an imploring look upon his face. She said:
"Do not fight, Gonzalo."
Mustering up the strength to dissimulate, he exclaimed, scornfully:
"I fight with this scoundrel! Never! I will kill him when I meet him."
She believed his words, but she turned to say in a broken voice:
"Don't do it, for the sake of your innocent children."
"For my children and for you," he returned, caressing her cheek affectionately with his hand.
And overcome by emotion he hastily withdrew.
On meeting Pablo he said in a low tone:
"I can speak openly with you; you are a man, and you know that there are things in life that are inevitable. The seconds of the duke have just gone, and I have just deceived Cecilia by promising not to fight. But, as you understand, that is impossible."
"Why?—No, you ought not to fight—I am the one—I ought to kill this wretched fellow," impetuously exclaimed the handsome youth.
"Thanks, Pablo, thanks," returned Gonzalo gravely, in an unsteady voice, and clasping his hand effusively, "but that can't be. Think a little over the affair, and you will see that your affection and kind wishes lead you astray."
It cost Gonzalo some trouble to convince Pablo that he was the one who should fight the duke first, and his not very fertile brain was much exercised in his search for reasonable and logical arguments in support of this decision.
Pablo only gave in after a long discussion and with the understanding that if Gonzalo were wounded in the duel he should challenge the duke.
There was something in the loyalty and affection shown him by all the family, and in the open and decided way in which they ranked themselves on his side and repudiated the erring daughter and sister, which touched while it overwhelmed him.
This magnanimous conduct obliged him to be generous and not mention the name of the faithless girl in conversation, as he could not do so in measured language.
Pablito was not so reticent, but he saw that it was better not to continue the subject.
"Look here, go early to-morrow to Sarrio and take the letters I will give you to Alvaro Peña and Don Rudesindo. Let them proceed at once to Nieva, trying to keep out of sight as they pass by here. Let them arrange the matter as quickly as possible, and send word to Sarrio about the day and time. You will get it there, and bring it straight to me. Then I will manage to leave here without letting your father and Cecilia know about it."
Having received his directions Pablo went off on horseback to Sarrio at daybreak to execute them, and Peña and Don Rudesindo at once proceeded to Nieva.
Gonzalo from his bedroom window saw the carriage, in which they were, go by.
As may be supposed, the gossip in Sarrio was terrible. Nothing else was spoken about. The friends of Belinchon looked glum, and there were several who blamed Don Rosendo for having so spoiled his youngest daughter and having put up with her airs and graces of a princess.
The enemies of the patrician were in a state of pure delight and added a thousand particulars to the scandal.
The few impartial people in the place contented themselves with pitying Gonzalo, and censuring the repugnant proceeding of Morin's malicious spouse; for every one knew it was she who had put the match to the train. Many inquisitive people passed in front of Don Rudesindo's house, and gazed eagerly at the windows, and tried to glean from the servants, as they came out, what was going on within. It was said that Ventura was very quiet, and showed little sorrow for her conduct, for she had dined and joked and laughed with the wife of the cider manufacturer. It was thought that the eager curiosity shown in this quarter would have distracted attention from Don Rudesindo's expedition to Nieva with Peña. But the object of the journey was suspected, and the news ran through the town like wildfire, that Gonzalo was to have a duel with the duke, no one knew where.
Don Melchor de las Cuevas lived alone with a man and a woman-servant. The night of the ball he went home and, calling at the Belinchons, they told him that Gonzalo had gone to Tejada; so, not feeling well, the old man retired to bed without any suspicions.
The following day he still felt indisposed, not being accustomed to late hours, so he remained at home. However, he sent his man to Belinchon's to ask after his nephew, and there the servant heard all that had happened. But not daring to tell his master the news, the servant brought back the message that Gonzalo was all right at Tejada.
That day went by, and on the following, which was Tuesday, the servant heard that the young man was to have a duel with the duke. Then, either fearing to incur responsibility, or because he thought his master could prevent the trouble, he told him the whole story, albeit with some reservation.
Don Melchor, wounded in his tenderest affections, jumped up from his armchair and ordered a carriage to be fetched at once to take him to Tejada, and when it came to the door he got in, telling the driver to go with all speed to Belinchon's country place. Don Rosendo was the first person he saw, and he received him with some confusion and shame, as if he shared in the disgrace weighing upon Gonzalo. Don Melchor was rather cold to him, not intentionally, but from his desire to see his nephew. Don Rosendo took him to his room door, and there left him. Then the Señor de las Cuevas rapped with his knuckles.
"Who's there?" was sharply asked from within.
Whereupon the old man turned the handle, and went in without answering. Gonzalo, who was standing in the middle of the room, turned as red as fire on seeing his uncle, who clasped him affectionately to his breast.
Copious tears then flowed down the young man's face. Nobody had seen him weep during that trying time, but the old man had been a father to him from his infancy, and he had no shame in revealing to him the most hidden wounds of his heart.
They remained for some time in each other's arms; and Don Melchor at last released his nephew and, pushing him toward an armchair, he said:
"Sit down."
So Gonzalo dropped into the seat and hid his eyes with his hand.
"It is a heavy blow," said the sailor in a hoarse voice, after a long silence—"a treacherous squall has put your bark under water. But you are a ship of much strength," he added, placing his hands on the young man's herculean shoulders. "You have solid bulwarks—we will weather the storm yet."
Gonzalo made no answer.
"Why did you not come home at once?"
"Because it would have been a cruel slight on this poor family in its deep affliction. They have been so kind to me."
"If that is so, you did well—but you ought to have told me—I don't forgive you for that."
"But why? The later you heard the bad news the better."
"That's not so! I am like your father, Gonzalo, and I can sympathize with you—They tell me you are going to have a duel with him—with that pirate. Is it so?"
"No—no such thing now—" returned the young man with some hesitation.
"Don't deceive me, Gonzalo! This duel can not take place. I have come determined to prevent it."
"There is nothing going on, uncle. Make yourself easy."
"It is useless for you to deceive me. I won't leave you for a moment. Here I will remain, I will sleep by your side so that you don't escape me, and I will keep guard over you from dawn to midday and till eve."
Gonzalo stood aghast, seeing that it was necessary to confess all, and to face the matter.
"And if it were true, what of it, uncle? Would you dare to prevent your nephew doing what is exacted by honor?"
"Yes, sir—And don't speak to me of daring!—Yes, sir, I dare," returned the old man in a rage. "Do you want me to give my consent to your losing your life through a villain, a rogue, who crept into your house to villainously betray your honor? Rogues like that are strung up, or shot, one does not fight them. You are blind, Gonzalo. Stop a moment, man, get to the bottom of the scandal and you will see that it does not hold water."
"What would you have me do then? Do you want me to let him go off quietly to Madrid? Do you want me to see him off and wish him a pleasant journey, and thank him for the kindness he has done me?"
"No, he has been curse enough; kill him if you like, but don't lose your own life."
"That is very easy to say, uncle," replied Gonzalo caustically. "Imagine that I go to Nieva, I seek him out, I shoot him, or I kill him with a blow—then I am taken off to prison, and however righteous my cause was, I have to undergo some years' incarceration—Allowing that the majority of men exonerate the deed, they would not think it a very brave one."