It gradually dawned upon Don Rosendo's younger daughter that the friendship of the duke might be turned to account by augmenting her father's political influence in the town, as well as by adding lustre and dignity to the family.
For instance, he might have a large cross.
Those who had one were addressed as "excellency." If her father were an excellency he would lose the stamp of a codfish merchant, which was an offense to her. And why should it not come to pass? A person of such influence as the duke could easily manage it. She had heard that a title of count or marquis could be bought. A title! And Venturita, without thinking of her elder brother and sister, lost herself in pleasant thoughts of one day being addressed as "la señora marquesa," or "la señora condesa."
But then that husband of hers was such a "boor"! So averse to interfering with politics or asserting himself at all. Oh! if she were but a man, what would she not do!
In a short time her friendship and influence with the duke increased to such a degree that it was noticed not only by the inmates of the house, but also by outsiders. Don Jaime even went to meet her when coming from bathing, and walked back with her right across the town, to the great excitement of the people. The girl nearly died with pleasure at the thought of the envy of her friends at this mark of favor, for the duke openly paid her a thousand attentions, and made no secret of admiring her more than the other members of the family. Gonzalo was secretly very much annoyed at this friendliness. He had disliked the duke from the first, and he noticed that the antipathy was mutual, although, as a man of the world, the duke had assumed a courteous, almost kind demeanor, which would have disguised his feelings to any but a very keen observer, or a simple-hearted fellow like Gonzalo. Nevertheless, with his increased friendliness and ease with the wife there was a decrease of animosity toward the husband, and his politeness seemed to be of a sincere character. Knowing that Gonzalo was devoted to sport, he made him a present of a magnificent gun which had been given him by the Czar of Russia. Then the grandee frequently invited him to join him in shooting expeditions, so that their relations became less strained. But unfortunately an accident occurred which upset them again.
One day, Gonzalo having gone to Lancia on business for his father-in-law, the duke went off coursing, only accompanied by Don Feliciano and Don Sanjurjo, the notary; the dogs he took with him belonged to the house. Then it happened that the harrier Gonzalo thought most of, having bought him for a high price in England, misbehaved himself. The fault that he committed was one of the gravest that can be committed in the exercise of his duty; it was nothing less than dropping a hare when the duke ran forward to take it from his mouth, so that the timid creature, only wounded in one leg, escaped into the bracken. Thereupon the rage of the grandee was so great that, raising his gun, he fired upon the dog, but the animal, seeing the aggressive attitude of the sportsman, ran away and got off scot-free.
The duke, in a fury, pursued the animal to put an end to it, but he could not overtake it. The culprit fled from the scene, and was invisible for the rest of the day. When the grandee reached home he was told that the dog had returned, and then Don Jaime, who was still in a rage, said to the servant:
"Catch that dog, take him out of the town, and shoot him."
The man-servant was thunderstruck. He stood for some minutes in doubt, and then, cowed by the stern, imperious look of the duke, he bowed submissively and proceeded to execute the order.
He called the dog, put a chain on him, and taking his gun he left the house. How little the poor creature thought he was going to his death! He leaped for joy; he wriggled with delight, and lavished such licks of affection on the servant's face that the man's eyes filled with tears, and he cursed the course of action to which he was compelled, for the beautiful dog was a great favorite of his.
"Heaven's mercy on us! What should he say to Señor Gonzalo when he heard that his Polion had been killed?"
Just as he was thinking this, Gonzalo appeared round the corner of the street. He had arrived in the coach from Lancia, and was on his way home. Seeing the servant, he said with some surprise:
"Where are you off to, Ramon?"
The servant, abashed and frightened, hesitated a few seconds, and then said:
"To kill the dog."
This reply so astonished the young man that he was dumb with amazement.
"Kill the dog!"
"Yes, señor; the duke gave me the order because he dropped the hare after catching it."
Gonzalo turned livid.
"How dare he give such a shameless order!" roared the young man, and snatching the chain so roughly from the servant that he made him stagger.
Then he strode toward the house, accompanied by the dog, with the intention of having a violent scene with the duke. But before he reached home he had time to consider that it would be a breach of hospitality to quarrel with a guest, and so he contented himself with sending Polion back to the kennel, and treating the duke somewhat coldly.
AFTER the canine episode the preference shown by the duke for his wife, and the attentions that he paid her, became as offensive to Gonzalo as they were at first astonishing, although it still never entered his head that they went beyond the politeness or gallantry customary in high society. Besides, the disparity of age between the duke and his wife seemed to preclude all thoughts of jealousy. Such things only happened in novels. One day, when he was alone with Cecilia, he suddenly broached the subject by saying:
"Cecilia, what do you think of the friendship of my wife with the duke?"
The girl looked surprised.
"What do I think of it?" she returned, looking at him with her large, liquid eyes. "Why, I think that Ventura gets on with him better than the rest of us here."
"But this partiality, don't you think it makes me look rather ridiculous?"
"Why, because it does," was the abrupt reply.
Then after a few minutes' silence he added:
"You, Cecilia, do not know how easily a husband can be made ridiculous when he has such a frivolous, imprudent wife as Ventura!"
"Gonzalo!"
"So imprudent, yes; for you don't notice how pleased she is to talk aside with him, and how delighted she is when everybody sees her hanging on his arm! There is no need to say anything, for I know it is sheer vanity. She has never been anything but vain and frivolous. You know it yourself, although you won't confess it. But in this case her vanity may give rise to many grave consequences for me and for everybody. Let her put on a different dress every day to attract the duke; let her cut her nails into points, and let her put rouge on her cheeks; let her talk of Meissonier's pictures without having seen them, and play the fool in other similar ways; but, my dear girl, those smiles before people and those asides are intolerable, and if they go on many more days I think I shall have to put matters right in a way she won't like."
Cecilia tried to calm him down. If he himself confessed that it was all due to Venturita's frivolous nature, why should he excite himself about it? Jealousy was ridiculous; nobody in the world could suppose that Venturita regarded the duke as anything else than what he was—a married man, and an old one who might very well be her grandfather.
"No, I am not jealous," said the young man somewhat shamefacedly.
"Yes, you are, Gonzalo, although you don't know that you are. This anger and this excitement, what do they show but jealousy? And look here, my boy; allow me to say that it is not paying much compliment to yourself, and still less to your wife, for if you can imagine that Ventura can prefer this worn-out man to yourself, you credit her with very little taste."
She blushed as she said these words, and Gonzalo received the sally with a smile without being convinced. His instinct, which was stronger than his intelligence, told him that such an aberration was possible. However, he did not wish to pursue the discussion, because it was humiliating to press the point, even with his sister-in-law.
He wanted to tell his wife that he strongly objected to the conversations, confidences, glances, and coquettish smiles she lavished upon the duke, but he knew Venturita of old, and dreaded speaking to her himself. One of the biting remarks in which she excelled, or a mocking retort, easily upset him, and when he was upset like that he did not know where he was and where to stop.
This was the position of affairs when, the day following his conversation with Cecilia, he looked in at the Club as usual. Glancing at the papers on the centre table, his eye fell upon the last number of "The Youth of Sarrio." He hardly ever read the paper, for although he was not a party to the antagonistic attitude of his fellow-members, he was equally averse to the course taken by the Cabin community, and he avoided seeing the insults leveled at his father-in-law, that made his blood boil. But on this occasion he cast a careless glance at it, and stopped to read some of Periquito's verses on the charms of a certain lady, which made him roar with laughter. Under this effusion there was a short story with the heading, "An Uncommon Kind of Husband" and he began to peruse it in a perfunctory way:
"A mandarin on his travels was received as the guest of a certain Chinese plebeian, who placed the best room at his disposal and provided the best provisions the market could supply in his honor. This Chinaman had a very beautiful wife who at once attracted the attention of the old mandarin (for he was old). The mandarin took no heed of the comforts and the luxurious furniture which the Chinese proudly placed at his disposal; he had only eyes for the wife of the Chinaman. The house was frequented by all the friends of the host, who were obsequiously effusive in smiles, flattery, and genuflections. But the mandarin hardly condescended to notice them; he had no words for anybody but the wife of the Chinaman. He was taken to see the town, the chief points of interest, the picturesque suburbs; it all fell flat: the mandarin was absorbed in the lady. He was taken to large shooting parties, he was rowed out on the still blue sea in a beautiful boat, to try his hand at fishing. But as the mandarin cast his net into the deep he thought he would rather ensnare his host's lovely wife.
"And while the whole house and neighborhood were alive to the cause of the mandarin's depression and saw the drift of his attentions, the husband was quite unsuspicious and calm, and continued to entertain the mandarin with magnificent banquets and splendid festivities until a friend whispered in his ear one day: 'Don't you see, silly, that your guest cares nothing for your entertainments and fishing and shooting parties? His heart is set upon your beautiful wife.'
"Then the Chinaman, when his eyes were opened, took his wife by the hand and led her to the mandarin, saying:
"'Pardon, my lord, but I did not notice your depression, nor did I guess your wishes. If I had guessed them sooner I would have gratified them ere now. Here, take my wife, oh glorious mandarin.'"
Gonzalo read the columns without seeing the drift of their meaning, but suddenly it burst upon him, like a flash of lightning, that he was the subject of the little story. A sudden rush of blood suffused his face with a fiery hue. He looked around in a quick, shamefaced way. He was alone. Then with convulsive hands he took up the paper he had let fall and reread the article for the second, third, and fourth time. The more he read it the more the fearful suspicion took form in his mind, and it so overwhelmed him, mentally and physically, that his whole body, with the exception of his head, grew suddenly icy cold.
The first idea that came to him with returning self-possession was, "I'll go at once to the office of 'The Youth' and reduce them all to fragments."
He put on his hat and left the room, but on the staircase another side of the picture presented itself to him—the great scandal and commotion he would cause in the town, the laughing-stock he would be in the place, and how his enemies, or rather those of his father-in-law, would delight in turning upon him.
He remounted the staircase and returned to the Club to think a minute. After taking two or three turns up and down the room without knowing if he were moving or motionless, he altered his mind.
He took the paper, folded it deliberately, put it in his pocket, then went slowly down the iron staircase, and turned homeward with a slow step, pale face, and stony glance.
His sense of strength and rage had restored his self-possession.
"Is the señorita in her room?" he asked the servant who opened the door.
"I think so, señor; I will ask the maid."
"No, no; don't ask anybody; I will go myself."
And he went up to the room which they had had since the duke had occupied the first floor. On passing from the passage he did not notice Doña Paula, who was sitting near the door, and who was aghast at his strange expression of countenance. Venturita was standing before the mirror. On seeing her husband she said, without turning her head:
"Hollo! I thought you had gone out. What is up now?"
Gonzalo drew the paper from his pocket, unfolded it slowly, and handed it to her, saying:
"This."
"And what is this?" asked the girl in surprise.
"A paper."
"Yes, I see—but what of it?"
"It contains a very interesting little story. Read it. Here in the third column, underneath these verses."
There were three or four pots of flowers in the room, which had been used for the portrait that was standing against the wall, waiting to be hung up in the drawing-room. Gonzalo's eyes grew dark as they fell upon this picture of his wife, redder than a rose and more golden than a canary, and with a mystic expression on her face such as he had never seen.
The duke had talked of sending the portrait to the Salon in Paris. While Ventura read the paper he kept his eyes fixed upon her face with breathless attention, but she did not waver under his gaze; she only grew a little pale as she read the last lines and returned him the paper.
"Why did you ask me to read that? I don't understand."
"Well, I will explain it to you," returned Gonzalo, accentuating each syllable in suppressed rage. "I asked you to read this because the mandarin mentioned in it is the Duke of Tornos, you are the Chinese lady, and I am the Chinaman—do you understand now?"
At these words he glared at his wife in a terrible way, and crushed up in his hand a bough of a plant that was standing beside him.
Ventura met the look without wincing, and seemed more surprised than alarmed; she hesitated for an instant, while her lips moved to reply, and she ended by bursting into a loud laugh.
"Ave Maria! what an atrocity!"
"I am in earnest, Ventura," returned the young man; "this that excites your derision is a very serious matter, and your happiness and mine are at stake."
Ventura only replied by another peal of laughter, and another, until she bubbled over with laughter, but Gonzalo was not blind to the affectation of her merriment.
"Take care, Ventura, take care," he said with his face fraught with fury; "recollect I am speaking seriously now."
"But, my dear fellow—ha! ha!—do you expect me not to laugh when you tell me—ha! ha!—that you are a Chinaman and I am a Chinese lady?—ha! ha! ha!" and her laughter grew more affected every minute.
"It is now some days since I ought to have put matters straight," continued the husband, gloomily, after a pause. "This unwarranted, inconvenient, stupid, familiar attitude that you take with the duke before people irritated me exceedingly—but I wasn't going to expose myself to ridicule by saying so. Jealous men always look ridiculous—but you see what has happened by my being too remiss."
So saying, he broke off the branch he was clutching and crushed it in his hand.
"But you are really jealous now, are you not?" she asked in tones of mingled cajolery and endearment.
"If I were, I should be silent, Ventura—I should be silent and watchful; and if my jealousy were well grounded—I learned what to do before the priest read me Saint Paul's epistles. But there is no question of jealousy here; the age and position of the duke preclude it, and I don't insult you by supposing you prefer him to me. The point is, the ridicule which your imprudence has brought upon me. You don't see, you stupid girl, that we have the eye of the public upon us; that we have lots of enemies, and that they seize the smallest pretext to attack us."
"Well, you acknowledge it is only a pretext to annoy you."
"Yes; but it is founded on your inherent vanity, which I have never been able to break you of."
"Let us understand each other, Gonzalo. What have I done?" she asked in an injured tone.
The young man was silent as he looked at her sternly. Then after some minutes he said slowly:
"You know too well. Repeating it degrades me."
There was another pause of silence, and then Ventura said somewhat impatiently:
"Well, what do you want?"
"I am going to tell you," returned the young man, restraining himself with difficulty. "I want this objectionable friendship to cease, as you see it is most derogatory to me. I want you not to think any more of the Duke of Tornos, nor to take any notice of his suave smile nor of his generally compromising flirting manners. I want to resume the calm tenor of our lives, such as it was before his arrival; and as that is my wish, I intend to have it done at all costs."
He was silent for a minute, and then, with a vehemence beyond what the occasion required, he added:
"This very day the duke shall leave the house."
Ventura looked at him in amazement. She turned suddenly livid, and with her lips trembling with rage she exclaimed:
"What do you mean? You will have to be taken to Leganes. Come, come," she added in a more conciliatory tone, "do me the kindness to leave me in peace, and go and calm yourself, for you really require it."
Gonzalo's face then became distorted with fury, his lips wreathed with fierce sarcasm, and his eyes flamed.
"Ah!" he roared, more than said, "take the friendship of this rake, for he is a rake, and all Spain knows it; you think more of it than of your husband's happiness; but don't think for an instant that because I am not a duke and a grandee that I don't know how to protect my honor! Look here! Look here! This is the respect that I have for the duke."
And at these words he gave the picture a kick which leveled it to the ground with a great noise. Then he seized hold of it, with his teeth set, his eyes bloodshot, and a prey to one of those paroxysms of rage to which powerful phlegmatic people are sometimes subject. The canvas was soon in pieces; and Ventura, utterly dumfounded, but with the daring of a spoiled woman, gasped out:
"Brute! Brute!"
The tone of this insult was so fierce with rage that Gonzalo raised his head as if he had been struck with a red-hot iron; and springing upon her, he seized her by the arm. The girl uttered a cry of agony—her husband's hand held her with a steel-like grip that went to the very bone.
"Forgive her, Gonzalo, forgive her!" exclaimed Doña Paula, intervening.
The infuriated man turned his head without loosening his hold of his wife. At the sight of his mother-in-law, in whose face, now convulsed with terror, illness had made such cruel ravages, gazing at him with imploring eyes and hands clasped in entreaty, his hand let go of Ventura and fell to his side.
He had no time to say anything. Doña Paula, without looking at her daughter, dragged him by the coat-sleeve, saying:
"Come, my son, come; I will settle this matter, and calm you down."
And Gonzalo, overwhelmed with shame, let himself be taken away like an automaton. On reaching her room the good lady locked the door.
"I heard all," she said, as she fixed upon him her large, dark eyes, as sad as those of a Dolorosa, the last remnant of her beauty. "I saw you cross the passage, looking so strange that I couldn't help following you. I don't know what it says in this paper that you have given Venturita, but it must be something very repulsive and objectionable."
"The greatest insult that a man can have!" returned Gonzalo in a stifled tone.
"How infamous! Insult you, who have never hurt them! You are right. It is Ventura's fault: her frivolity and the silly ideas that she gets into her head have caused this trouble, as they have caused other slighter ones that you have had. But do not imagine for an instant that there is anything bad about Ventura. She is a giddy creature, a little flirt, but she is not bad at heart; she will improve with time. I, also, have had my share of pride, and committed fooleries that put me to shame to think of now! Oh, years, sadness, and sickness take all the nonsense out of one! The thing now is to prevent any worse consequences. I have noticed for some time the duke's attentions, and the intimacy which has sprung up between them. I know quite well that there is nothing in it; I am as certain of my daughter as you must be; but I can quite understand that the conduct of this man is annoying to you. Moreover, when a paper takes the opportunity of insulting you, it is time matters were put on another footing; some step must be taken."
"It is come to this," said Gonzalo moodily, "I send the duke out of the house this very day."
"No, you can not and must not do so; you are quick-tempered, and there would be a violent scene, which must be avoided."
"But it is precisely this scene that I want!"
"Don't be childish, Gonzalo," replied the lady. "It is for me to settle this matter, because Rosendo neither sees, hears, nor understands anything beyond politics. A scandal just now would make you ridiculous."
"Never mind!" exclaimed the young man in a rage. "I want the pleasure of kicking him out of the house."
"You force me to say, then, Gonzalo," returned Doña Paula in a tone of impatience tinged with authority, "that you have no right to do so. It was not you who invited him, neither are you the master of the house."
The young man colored deeply; and noting his confusion the lady added, in an affectionate tone:
"You are our son, and sons do not interfere in the affairs of their parents. It is they who have the duty of watching over their happiness and sacrificing themselves for it. I will see that the duke leaves the house without any scandal, and without any one suspecting the reason, or your doing anything which you would regret afterward. Don't think that I do it for his sake, for I detest him. From the moment the man arrived he filled me with the greatest repulsion. Now that I see what he has brought upon our family, you can imagine how I dislike him. I only do it for your sake, because I love you, I will not say any more than my daughter—because one's children, oh! one's children! you know what they are—but, at least as much, and I esteem you much higher."
Gonzalo, quite overcome, dropped into a chair, and began sobbing like a child, with his face in his hands. The good lady placed her thin, white hand on his head, and, with tears in her eyes, she said:
"My poor boy! I will set this matter right."
THE Señora de Belinchon descended the iron staircase leading to the second floor, and, meeting the grandee's valet, she asked:
"What is the señor duke doing?"
"He is painting," replied the servant, looking with surprise and astonishment at Doña Paula's red eyes.
"Tell him that I wish to speak to him."
While the man went to inform his master, Doña Paula thought her strength would give way, for she began to feel premonitory symptoms of the spasms to which she was occasionally subject; but her strong wish to restore peace to her children overcame her weakness at the moment. Commending herself to our Lady of Pity, she entered Don Jaime's study, full of resolution.
The señor, clad in the fantastic garb worn at home in the morning, came forward to receive her with his palette and brushes in his hand.
"Señora," he said, bowing respectfully and raising the gold-tasseled Turkish cap that covered his head, "I am sorry you troubled to come up. A message would have summoned me immediately to your presence."
Doña Paula made a gesture of thanks, putting her hand to her heart, which was beating at her side like a sledge-hammer. The duke looked at her in surprise.
"Take a seat, señora," he said, putting his palette and brushes on a chair.
Whereupon the lady dropped into an armchair, and Don Jaime remained standing.
"The door must be shut," she said, beginning to rise from her seat; but the gentleman anticipated her, and then took up his stand in front of the lady, squaring his feet with exaggerated respect, and waiting for her to speak.
Several minutes passed in silence, then, raising her sad eyes, she said:
"Señor duke, you have conferred a great honor on us in coming to our house. We can never sufficiently thank you for this mark of favor—"
The duke bowed as he raised his heavy eyelids to cast upon his interlocutor a look tinged with curiosity.
"Why do you not sit down?" asked Doña Paula, interrupting her speech.
"I am very comfortable, señora; continue."
But the interruption had upset her; she could not proceed for some minutes. Finally she murmured:
"It is dreadful!—you do not know, señor duke, what I am going through now. I wish I were dead!"
And the tears rushing to her eyes, she drew her handkerchief from her pocket and buried her face in it.
The duke, now quite astonished, said:
"Calm yourself, señora. I am a true friend of both you and De Belichon. Whatever trouble you may have, let me share it as if it were mine, and I will do what I can to assuage it."
"Many thanks, many thanks," murmured the lady, without taking her handkerchief from her eyes; and after a minute's silence she said in a trembling voice:
"Will you do me a very great favor? A favor for which I will thank you all the days of my life—but I don't dare ask it?"
"I repeat that I am at your service; and that anything I can do for you, you may consider done."
"Oh! no, it is outrageous in me! You would never think, señor duke, that your visit to this house has caused much misery. Your attention and your admiration of my daughter Ventura's frank, merry disposition have given rise to remarks in the town."
"Oh!" interrupted the duke, smiling to hide a certain feeling of shame.
"Yes, very offensive remarks about all of us; more especially about my son-in-law, who is as dear to us as if he were our own son. I do not blame you or her. I am sure that in your case it has only been due to overattention, which, in a little place like this, where nothing escapes notice—Perhaps you, señor, ought not to have—She has been imprudent and frivolous, she was always faulty in that way—She is a girl with a will of her own, as one may say—If there were no divisions in the town there would not be this fearful feud, which is nearly the death of us; probably nobody would have noticed—Unfortunately our enemies seize on the most trifling pretext to annoy us and put us to shame—An article has come out which attacks my son-in-law in such a shameless way—And this I can not allow—"
Doña Paula's courtesy had diminished with her speech, and the final words were rapped out defiantly. A slight flush suffused the duke's affrighted face. He ought, of course, to have seen the gravity of the situation, but he merely thought: "This person is reading me a lesson."
"I am very sorry," he said in an obsequious tone, "to have caused you all any trouble. But I am so used to being an object of public comment and attack that the remarks and articles you have just mentioned don't annoy me in the slightest. The lower classes always try to pay off the superiority of the upper ones by finding fault with them. It is the eternal law of give and take that can not be altered."
"That is all very well, señor duke, for such an exalted personage as yourself—But we are quite different; we are not in such a high position, and evil tongues, you must know, can do us a lot of harm," returned Doña Paula, so simply that it sounded ironical.
The duke, somewhat irritated, played nervously with the tassel of the cap he held in his hand, as he said:
"I repeat, I am very sorry, señora. If I had thought that my innocent attentions to your daughter could have been subjected to such malignant interpretation, I would have been more careful in proffering them. In the future I will be more discreet. Lord!" he added, smiling, "how is it possible to imagine that a man of my years could regard a child like Ventura in any but a paternal way!"
This remark was supposed to completely exculpate him.
"Oh, señor duke, men in your position are never old. The brilliancy of it is attractive to women—Therefore, it is not sufficient to be merely more prudent in the future; the world must be robbed of all pretext for remarks—"
The duke turned suddenly pale, hesitated a few seconds, and finally said:
"By my leaving the house, eh?"
"This was the favor I came to beg of you," she said without raising her eyes, and in a tone of humility.
Don Jaime turned a shade paler, took a turn up and down the room, crushing the Turkish cap in his clenched hand, uttered a sarcastic laugh, and returning to his place in front of Doña Paula, he said with mocking arrogance:
"So you turn me out of the house, señora?"
"I, señor duke? What an idea! The only thing I want is to restore peace to my children and avoid a catastrophe."
"What catastrophe?" asked the duke, while an ominous light shone in his dull eyes.
Doña Paula saw it boded danger for her son-in-law, so she hastened to repair her slip.
"The catastrophe of my son-in-law being insulted by those wretches—Look here, señor, if you are offended at the request I have just made you make a great mistake—We are so honored at your coming to our house that nothing could have flattered us so much as this favor—My husband exerted himself to prefer the request, and he was delighted when he heard that you accepted the invitation. You can never understand how proud I was to have such a distinguished person in my house—I, a woman of the people, the daughter of a sailor, the granddaughter of a watchman, known in the place as the Serena, as my mother and grandmother were before me—certainly I should have been prouder still if it had been some years ago—one's pride decreases with disillusions and troubles. But at all events I am very flattered, and only the fear of the great troubles which may accrue to my children obliges me to take this step; so you will forgive me, señor."
Don Jaime took another turn across the room, stopped in the centre to think a minute, and ended by shrugging his shoulders and wreathing his lips in a scornful way. Then advancing toward Doña Paula, he said:
"Is your husband aware of the step you have just taken?"
"No, señor; and I shall be glad if it could be settled without his knowledge."
"Perfectly. It shall be done to-day."
"Oh, señor duke! a thousand thanks—You will forgive—" she exclaimed, rising from her seat and extending her hands to him.
The grandee bowed low without replying.
"I entreat you not to bear me malice."
"The subject of our conversation will remain quite between us. We will manage to avoid disclosing the reason of my departure. Try to play your part well. I will answer for my own."
Doña Paula quitted the room, escorted by the duke, who led her to the door with an exaggerated, silent politeness.
On reaching the staircase the anxious lady, once more alone, breathed freely. Although it had been at the cost of so many painful emotions, she was delighted at having arranged the matter without any scandal or danger. And with a fleet foot she who generally dragged herself about in ill-health now ran to Gonzalo to tell him the result of her mission.
At luncheon the duke mentioned that he had received a letter from one of his sons, saying he was coming to spend the month of September with him in Sarrio; and his brother, the Marques del Riego, would probably also come. He had therefore decided to take rooms at the hotel. Don Rosendo, seconded by his wife, immediately strongly opposed the step, while Gonzalo, with gloomy face and lowered eyes, continued his meal in silence during the discussion.
In spite of all Don Rosendo's arguments to make him stay, even representing that the house was large enough to receive the new guests, the sorrow which his whole family would feel at this unexpected departure, etc., etc., the duke was obdurate, although he responded with his usual patronizing smile, and a flow of pleasant, friendly phrases. At last it was seen that persuasion was useless, and the depressed Don Rosendo accompanied the duke and his secretary on the inspection of the rooms at the only decent hotel the town possessed. The first floor was taken, and on the following day the duke moved into it, in spite of his host's urgent entreaties that he would at least stay until the arrival of his relatives.
The whole place was taken by surprise at the move, and eagerly inquired the cause. But although Don Rosendo gave everybody a full account of the whole occurrence, it was impossible to prevent people suspecting that things had not been just as they were told by Belinchon. His enemies were particularly active in unraveling the mystery, thinking, not without reason, that the Club party would not have the duke's influence to oppose them. During the two months and more of the grandee's residence in Sarrio, the friends of Don Rosendo had successfully brought into court an indictment against the mayor; the administrator of the posts, who was of the Cabin party, had been withdrawn, and the problem of the slaughter-house had been solved according to Belinchon's opinion.
Maza's friends, who had been going about like doomed flies in autumn, received the fresh news like a tardy ray of sunlight. Holy Heavens! what excited talk took place that night in the Cabin! Joy shone in all their eyes, their nostrils dilated with delight as they anticipated the fall of the Club party and a decisive, a grand victory for themselves. "The Youth of Sarrio" published in its next number the following laconic but venomous paragraph:
"His excellency, the Señor Duke of Tornos, who was the guest of Don Rosendo Belinchon, has moved to the first floor apartments of the Estella Hotel. We offer the honored duke our sincerest congratulations."
This disgraceful notice made Belinchon ill for days, and then he sent his seconds to Maza. But the mayor returned that they could not fight while he was in office, but when that was over he would see if he could not cross swords with such a blusterer. Then the seconds replying in a similar tone, they were threatened with imprisonment and had to retire.
The Duke of Tornos continued visiting Don Rosendo's house occasionally, and Belinchon and his friends always accompanied him when he went out. The friendship between them remained outwardly the same. The small neutral party in Sarrio thought that there was no mystery in his move, and that it all originated in the ridiculous imaginations of the Cabin party, who were blinded by the desire to get the better of their adversaries. However, some days had elapsed, and September had come in without bringing the advent of either the grandee's son or brother. The duke himself had so much improved in health in Sarrio that he had his carriage and horses brought from Madrid, and bought a charming little fishing-boat. He seemed disposed to spend some months in Sarrio. In his exterior relations with the Belinchon family—that is to say, when he met them in the town—he assumed a courteous, kind manner befitting people deserving much attention. He did not take such a familiar tone with Venturita as before, but he chatted with her in the theatre and at the Promenade in a playful way. Thus those who pried into the reason of his leaving the house were put off the scent. Doña Paula was very pleased at this behavior, and Gonzalo even, seeing that he could not expect more, was courteous and polite to him.
Peace reigned again between the young couple. Venturita after a few days, during which she looked pale and cross, and exchanged no word with her husband, doubtless being hurt by the violence he had shown in the scene described, resumed her usual demeanor—merry and pleasant sometimes, cross and capricious at others, and always ready with a sharp, sarcastic remark. Nevertheless, Gonzalo noticed an unaccustomed amiability and deference in her manner, and he attributed it to her desire to blot out the recollection of that transient but perilous trouble they had undergone.
So the days drifted quietly by in Don Rosendo's house, only disturbed by Doña Paula's attacks of illness. She was as often in bed as up, but she took long drives with Cecilia, or Ventura, and often had her grandchild Cecilita, whom she worshiped, with her. Don Rufo talked of the necessity of her moving to another climate, to a place above the level of the sea, where the air would be clearer, and Don Rosendo, although possessed with the desire of exterminating his enemies and conferring happiness on his natal town, entertained the idea of moving, albeit with some repugnance, and amused himself by weaving vague grand utilitarian plans as usual. He was inspired with the happy notion of transferring "The Light of Sarrio" to Madrid, and making it a daily paper under the title of "The Light of the Provinces," to defend the moral and material interests of the provinces; to maintain their autonomic life independent and free in face of the monopolizing action and power of the capital, "a raging fire that dries up the sap of the nation and devours her inherited wealth." What a great and noble thought!
At the end of October Gonzalo went to Lancia on business for his father-in-law. It was a question of persuading a banker of the town not to proceed with certain negotiations with a capitalist in Sarrio, a certain member of the Cabin, according to report; anyhow, he was to let Don Rosendo have the refusal of the offer in question on the same terms.
Gonzalo had been away two days. At dusk on the afternoon of the third day Doña Paula thought she would go up and see Ventura, who had returned to the second floor after the duke's departure. The good lady very rarely ascended that iron staircase. But that day she felt stronger, she had less pain in her side, and she wanted to try her strength and prove to herself how much better she was. The immediate object of her visit was to take her little granddaughter Cecilita a doll which the maid had just finished dressing. The stairs seemed very high. When she was half-way up she stopped to take breath, and on reaching the landing she called as loudly as she could:
"Cecilita, my child, where are you?"
"Here, grandma, here," returned the child, coming out of her mother's room.
She was a little creature, not yet three years old, with sunny golden hair, and so spontaneous in her baby talk that her grandmother quite adored her.
"What have you got for me, grandma? What have you got for me?" she asked, looking eagerly at Doña Paula, after having nearly knocked her over in the impetuous way she caught her by the legs.
"The doll, my child, with its new frock."
"No doll—the doll for Lalina—I'se big—I want chocolate."
"I have no chocolate here, my darling," replied the grandmother, looking lovingly at the child.
"Mama has chocolates—come and give me one."
And the little girl dragged her grandmother by the dress to her mother's room. On entering it the child seemed surprised, and looked about everywhere, while Ventura came forward and embraced her mother affectionately.
"My goodness! what a surprise! whatever brought you here? I don't know that it is good for you to come upstairs like this. Do you feel all right?"
"I am not very tired. I think I am better. Dehand's pills seem to do me good."
"That's right. I am glad we have at last hit upon a medicine that does some good. Won't you sit down?"
"Grandma, give me a chocolate," said the child, interrupting them.
"I haven't any, my dear. Have you any caramels, Ventura?"
"No."
"Jaime has some, and he is here."
Venturita turned dreadfully pale.
"What Jaime, child?" asked Doña Paula.
"Nobody, nobody; some nonsense. Well, these pills suit you, then? Suppose Don Rufo heard of it. Suppose he heard of it!" Ventura repeated in such a trembling voice and looking so confused that her mother gazed at her in astonishment.
"Jaime is here—he has chocolate; come and see, grandma."
Whereupon the child dragged Doña Paula by the dress, and the lady, vaguely apprehending something terrible, let herself be led without knowing what she was doing.
"Cecilia!" cried Ventura in a voice unlike that ever heard by her mother.
However, the child paid no heed, and went on dragging her grandmother toward the bedroom. But before they reached the door the Duke of Tornos appeared on the threshold.
At the sight of the sudden apparition Doña Paula stood rooted to the spot, with her face white and terrified and her eyes staring in amazement. Then she fell heavily to the floor, dragging the child with her.
The duke hastened to raise her, and then, obedient to an imperious gesture of Ventura, he laid her on the sofa and took his departure.
The cries of the girl soon brought up the servants and her sister. It was thought it was a faint brought on by overfatigue. She was carried to her room, where, thanks to Cecilia's care, she recovered consciousness, but not her faculty of speech. The unhappy lady was powerless to articulate a word. Two days went by, and the efforts of both Don Rufo and another doctor who came from Lancia were powerless to restore action to the paralyzed tongue.
She generally lay with her eyes shut, while soft sighs escaped her lips; but when Venturita entered the room she opened her eyes, and fixed them on her with an expression full of anguish and reproach.
Two days later, and almost at the same hour in which the fatal scene had taken place, the unhappy lady expired, with her grief-stricken eyes still fixed on Venturita's face, even in the hour of death.
THE Belinchon family retired to Tejada to mourn their bereavement in seclusion for some time.
Doña Paula was mourned, as she deserved to be, by her magnanimous husband, who, waiving his ideas of progress and reform, was not remiss in showing signs of grief and affection, which, in my opinion, in no wise detracted from his public dignity.
It was long before Cecilia ceased to mourn the loss of her mother, to whom she had been bound as much by ties of sympathy as of blood. She was more like Doña Paula than any other of the children, although she had not been the favorite. Pablo, the pet, felt it as much as he was capable of feeling anything; but, according to report, in a few days he was seen at full trot on his last purchase in horseflesh, so he could not be said to mourn very deeply.
But it was particularly on Venturita that the sudden death had a sad and strange effect. She was so overcome that she was for some days in bed in a high fever. When she recovered she looked pale and sad, replied abstractedly when she was spoken to, and in spite of her husband's entreaties she rarely left her room. This grief, as great as it was unexpected, was a proof to Gonzalo of the truth of Cecilia and Doña Paula's continual assertions that Venturita might be wild, capricious, and vain, but she had a good heart. This was a great alleviation to the sincere sorrow he felt at the death of his mother-in-law, for the final and maternal service she rendered him had put the seal to the affection with which her constant kindness had inspired him.
The Duke of Tornos returned to Madrid shortly after his friend's affliction.
From thence he corresponded with Don Rosendo, and frequently did him a good turn in the ceaseless feud that he maintained against his enemies of the Cabin.
These services were finally crowned by the Grand Cross of Isabel the Catholic. The grandee forwarded with the diploma the Order set in diamonds worth not less than 20,000 reales.
Don Rosendo's gratitude and emotion on the receipt of the great mark of honor can be imagined. As nobody in Sarrio owned the Grand Cross, he had to go to Lancia for a knight of the Order to complete the honor by decorating him with it.
And now that he was a knight, he who had professed a certain metaphysical scorn for all religious observances now joined in the procession of the parish, so as to carry a light, with the Order on his breast and the ribbon across his frock coat.
All this was gall and wormwood to Maza's party, and their spite thereat was let off not only at the Cabin, but in the periodical, in which the famous founder of "The Light of Sarrio" was made the subject of both comic and serious attacks.
In some of the fierce and caustic paragraphs one could almost see the bilious mayor, pen in hand.
For the first time in his life Don Rosendo read the diatribes with no sensation beyond that of infinite scorn. When the apogee of society is reached, attacks from pygmies seem more curious than offensive. The event roused Venturita from her lethargic, gloomy state. One of her dreams had been realized, and she participated in the pride and glory of her father, even to appearing sometimes in the town, but, of course, always in the carriage.
She adopted a haughtier mien, and her languid, grand, ladylike air made all the ladies of the town nearly die of envy, although they avenged themselves for her contemptuous manners by calling her, in their hours of spleen, "The Codfish Princess."
The death of her mother, whom everybody had known "with the handkerchief tied behind," as they say, had contributed as much as the Grand Cross of her father to raise the social status of the family, or rather to make it aristocratic.
Venturita, with her scornful demeanor, her costly costumes, and the disdainful coolness with which she treated her acquaintances, effectually avenged the poor woman who had been made to undergo such a lifelong mortification at the hands of the ladies of Sarrio.
The winter passed away at Tejada—a winter unusually inclement. Sometimes it rained a great deal, which made it impossible to leave the house; at other times there was a severe frost; the sky was clear, but in the mornings the fields looked white with a coating of frost half an inch thick. All these meteorological phenomena hold charms for those who love the country. Gonzalo was born to revel in these fluctuations of Nature. If it froze, he rose early in the morning and, to the astonishment of the household, he went out into the corridor, where he washed himself with the water which he had brought from the marble fountain basin after breaking the ice. Then, donning a light shooting suit, he took his gun and went off on one of his wonderfully long walks of sixteen or eighteen miles, without any one hearing him complain of fatigue afterward.
If it snowed, he put on his waterproof, his high boots, and his fur cap, and went shooting wild pigeons or hares about the estate. More than once he fell into one of the reservoirs filled with snow, and it was only through his extraordinary strength that he managed to get out. And then the country offered other pleasures unknown in town. The groups of trees and bushes were pleasant to the eye; the dark green of the conifera looked clear and bright with the collection of water on their branches, which the frost soon solidified; the leaves of the magnolias shone like crystals, and both the face and coloring of Nature were incessant in their changes, and the forms of the trees and the mountains were also subject to endless variations.
Even the monotonous pattering of the rain upon the foliage gave a pleasant, reposeful feeling quite luxurious to those who had nothing to do out of doors, and who had within all the comforts and luxuries of the rich. It was pleasant to hear the chirping of the sparrows, who resorted by hundreds to a large Washingtonia near the house as if it were a great aviary. It was amusing to Gonzalo to feed the little exotic creatures that Don Rosendo had on his property after walking over to the cages in wooden shoes, and it was also delightful to doze in an armchair by the fireside with a cigar in his mouth and a bottle of rum by his side, while Cecilia read aloud either an interesting story or some harmonious, sonorous poetry.
Don Rosendo and Pablo went regularly every day to Sarrio, and came back to dinner. Don Rosendo occupied himself in directing public opinion along the path of progress, both moral and material, and in crushing those "reptiles who grovel in the mud because they are incapable of rising to the high regions of ideas, and then eject their venom on every one superior to them in intelligence or virtue"—it is unnecessary to mention the names of "those reptiles" alluded to in his articles so frequently by Don Rosendo—and Pablo was engaged in laying siege to the hearts of several fair strangers who had arrived in the town.
One morning he went out shooting with his brother-in-law, but finding that the cold spoiled his complexion, he gave up the sport almost entirely. Besides, Piscis greatly objected to it, for a clever centaur like him cared for nothing on earth but horses.
In the afternoon, when it rained, Ventura played tresillo with Cecilia and Gonzalo if she were in a good humor, and if not, the two latter played tute together, with a child seated on the lap of each; and although the little girls upset the game every moment by taking up a card in their tiny hands, the players were so good-tempered that they merely took them gently from them.
"Be quiet, Cecilita, be quiet; if you show your aunt my cards she will win."
"Never mind, auntie dear, look at them," said the child, laughing. When the game was over the elders watched the children make houses with the cards, while the raindrops pattered on the Chinese windows and the logs of wood crackled on the hearth. The children had their meals with the family, and attending to them was an important occupation to Cecilia, for she had to serve them, to tie their bibs on, give them water, and see that they did not drop their food. When Gonzalo was at home he delighted in assisting at this repast and standing like a butler behind the chairs of his children. Then when they had to be taken up to bed, Cecilia took one in her arms, and Gonzalo the other, and they carried them to the room where they both slept. The task of undressing them was long and complicated. Gonzalo, in spite of his ox-like strength, was as gentle as a woman in untying their strings and moving their little bodies from one side to another without hurting them. Sometimes the hands of the brother and sister-in-law touched each other; then a slight cloud overshadowed her smiling face, but Gonzalo noticed nothing. When the little ones were in bed, they smilingly listened to the innocent prayers which Cecilita said to "auntie." Paulina did not yet know how to address the Supreme Being, and so she only made the sign of the cross. While they were going to sleep, papa and auntie had to remain close by the bedside without moving. If they talked together, the children were disturbed, and were a long time getting to sleep. Therefore they tried to keep silent, or they only exchanged a few words in low voices.
Cecilita could not sleep without holding one of her aunt's ears. Gonzalo often objected to this fancy, and every day he spoke of making her give it up; but his sister-in-law did not mind it, and she even bent over the pillow to indulge it. Sometimes Gonzalo fell asleep on Paulina's pillow, especially when he had been out shooting, and on waking up he found himself close to the sweet, pale face of his sister-in-law, whose wide-open eyes were fixed on space.
"What are you thinking about, bag of bones?" he asked her as his eyes met hers.
The girl collected herself with an effort, and smiled kindly.
"I don't know—nothing."
"Haven't you a lover?" he said one evening, raising her chin affectionately.
"Bah! what lovers could I have in this place?" said Cecilia, coloring, and withdrawing her face.
"You could have one in Sarrio."
"And he can't care much not to come and see me all the months that we have been here. I have already told you that I am going to remain an old maid," she added with a smile.
"That can't be," replied the young man with fervor; "it can't be. It would be a shame to poor humanity for you to remain an old maid. You were born to be married. Your chief delights are in managing the house, looking after children, sewing and dusting. You will be a perfect wife, like Luis de Leon describes. It is intolerable to think of any one who could make any man happy remaining an old maid."
We do not know what Cecilia's thoughts were just then; but they were probably something like this: "Yes; I could have made any man happy but you."
She opened her lips with a gesture of indifference, and replied:
"What has that to do with it? All women who are not pretty have these qualities. Those who shine in the world think of their clothes, and they are right."
There was a sad, despairing irony in these words which Gonzalo could not but feel in his heart.
"Oh! you always talk this nonsense. I believe you put on this modesty to be contradicted—besides, we know that you can shine with the first. You have eyes that are unequaled; you are graceful, elegant, even of distinguished bearing. What do you want more, bag of bones? The thing is, señorita, you have more here than here." And he put his finger first on his forehead, and then on his heart. "When somebody comes along who really interests you, you will see how all these ideas about celibacy will disappear."
Cecilia shrugged her shoulders and resumed her far-away look as she dropped the conversation.
With the month of April the family returned to Sarrio.
The municipal elections took place in June, and Gonzalo was elected town councilor against his will. Don Rosendo imposed the sacrifice upon him.
Ventura regained her spirits with the approach of summer. She went out more frequently, and her open carriage always created a certain sensation. The fact was, it was very grand with its trappings from Paris. She liked to dress in black, for in her vanity she knew that it enhanced the brilliancy of her complexion, and brought out the golden hue of her hair. When she went to the eleven o'clock mass, which was the most crowded service, her presence excited a repressed murmur of curiosity among the women and of admiration among the men. The princess-like air that exasperated the ladies was what delighted the men. They all agreed that her beauty, elegance, and distinguished manners made her far superior to the other young women in the town, and would create quite a sensation in more aristocratic circles. Ventura had been of the same opinion for some time, and she turned over in her head the idea of going to live in Madrid.
When she suggested it to her husband he expressed a great objection to the plan; he was not a man for the court; the social duties imposed by etiquette would be distasteful to him, for he was born for liberty, the enjoyment of the open air and sea, bodily exercise, and easy homely occupations. Besides, he was quite aware that the income upon which they lived among the first people in Sarrio would not be sufficient to keep them on the same social plane in Madrid, particularly with his wife's disposition. Nevertheless, Venturita was so sure of overcoming these objections that she ceased speaking of the project, but kept on thinking of the time and means of its fulfilment.
An event then occurred to disturb the life of the Belinchon family. Gonzalo was unexpectedly elected mayor of Sarrio through the influence of the Duke of Tornos. His first idea was to decline the appointment with some excuse, but Don Rosendo and all his friends were so eager and hot about his accepting it that he could not avoid doing so. The members of the Club were somewhat upset about it; they considered they were put upon, for the new mayor would never allow the foundations of their enemies' houses to be laid bare, as Maza did, neither would he resort to any other extreme measure of their suggesting.
In the month of September, when the bathing season was over which filled the town with guests, and shooting began in the country, Gonzalo returned with his family to Tejada. The children were very well there, and he always liked it; besides, there was not much going on just then in Sarrio. His office of mayor somewhat stood in the way of this move, but he arranged with his municipal colleagues to go to town every day, or at least very frequently. The journey could be made in a carriage in less than half an hour. Moreover, Don Rosendo kept his house open, so that Gonzalo could dine and sleep there as often as he liked.
As Venturita was thinking of going to Madrid the next spring, she made no objection to these plans of her husband; and he was glad to have made this arrangement when he found that the Duke of Tornos was coming in October, for life in Madrid had brought a recurrence of the malady which the air of Sarrio had benefited. Unwilling as he would have been to confess it, Gonzalo still felt the sting of jealousy in the inmost depths of his heart, and neither reflection nor specious argument with himself could eradicate it.
While the duke was away he was free from that feeling, but the news of his approaching arrival was a vexation to him, if not an actual trouble. And in effect, at the end of October there was no escape from going to meet him at Lancia with his father-in-law and several gentlemen, all members of the Club. The mayor's appointment through his influence made the grandee a powerful patron of the party. He put up at the Estella Hotel with his secretary, and began the outdoor life which he said, with truth, suited him so well. Several fine days he went out fishing, or walking, or shooting, or riding. This time he only brought two horses with him: one for a tilbury, and a magnificent saddle one; so when the secretary rode, he used a horse that Don Rosendo put at his disposal.
The duke maintained cordial relations with the Belinchon family, but he had only been to Tejada three times in a fortnight. As Ventura and Cecilia frequently came to Sarrio, he saw them and talked to them, although he avoided being with them in public.
After the duke's arrival Gonzalo assiduously read "The Youth of Sarrio," which now like "The Light" came out three times a week. He read it to soothe the uneasiness which he felt, because he was in continual fear of some insulting paragraph like that which enraged him so much the previous summer. In the first numbers after the grandee arrived, "The Youth" contented itself with showing its hostility toward the duke by making fun of him under such transparent nicknames as those of "painter," "fisher," and even "politician," and insinuating the idea that the duke was a person despised in Madrid, dismissed from court, and without influence with the Government. Some stories of his life were brought to light which were not much to his credit; and even his habits about his clothes and cravats were made fun of. Don Jaime did not read such an obscure journal; but when Peña showed him what was said about him he smiled maliciously, and wrote to the governor of the province asking him to take the first opportunity of suppressing the paper. The Club party hearing of this letter, joyfully anticipated the blow.