DON ARMANDO PALACIO VALDÉS

AUTHOR OF

"The Marquis of Peñalta"

(Marta y María).

TRANSLATED FROM THE SPANISH BY

NATHAN HASKELL DOLE.

NEW YORK THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

Copyright, 1888,

By THOMAS Y. CROWELL & CO.

Chapter: I., II., III., IV., V., VI., VII., VIII., IX., X., XI., XII., XIII., XIV., XV., XVI., XVII., XVIII., XIX., XX., XXI., XXII., XXIII., XXIV., XXV., XXVI., XXVII., XXVIII., XXIX., XXX., XXXI.

I.

Miguel reached Pasajes late Friday afternoon. On alighting from the train he found Ursula's boat moored to the shore.

"Good afternoon, Don Miguel," said the boat-woman, showing genuine joy in her face, where the fires of alcohol were flaming more than ever brilliantly; "I was beginning to think that I should not see you again."

"Indeed!"

"How should I know?... Men are so queer about getting married!.... But, señorito, you can't imagine how glad everybody in the village was to hear about it!.... Only a few jealous women would not believe it.... How I will make 'em fume to-night! I'm going all around telling everybody that I myself brought you over to Don Valentín's."

"Don't think of making any one fume," replied the young man, laughing; "but bend to your oars a little more."

"Are you in a hurry to see Maximina?"

"Of course I am."

It was the twilight hour: the shadows clustering in the recesses of the bay had already crept far up on the mountains. On the few vessels at anchor the hands were busy loading and unloading their cargoes, and their shouts and the creaking of windlasses were the only sounds that disturbed the peacefulness of the place.

Directly in front a few lights began to appear in the houses. Miguel did not take his eyes from one that gleamed faintly in the dwelling of the ex-captain of the Rápido. He felt a pleasant and delicious desire which from time to time made his lips tremble and his heart beat more rapidly. But no one as yet was in sight on the wooden balcony where so many times he had reclined, watching the arrival and departure of the ships. His eager face betrayed the thoughts that possessed him. Ursula smiled as her sharp eyes watched him covertly.

He leaped on shore, dismissed the boat-woman, mounted the uneven stone stairway, and made his way through the single, crooked street of the village. As he reached the little square, he saw on the balcony of his sweetheart's house a figure which quickly disappeared. The young man smiled with joy, and with a rapid step made his way through the doorway. Without looking in at the tobacconist's shop he rapped on the door with his knuckles.

"Who is it?" cried a sweet, mellow voice within, which echoed in his heart like heavenly music.

"It is Miguel."

The latch was raised; he pushed the door open and saw Maximina herself, with a candle in her hand, on the first landing of the stairway.

She wore a dress of black and white plaid, and her hair was in a braid as usual. She was a little paler than ordinary, and around her soft blue eyes delicate circles were traced, showing the effect of her recent anxieties. She smiled and blushed at sight of Miguel, who in two bounds cleared the distance between them, and clasping her in his arms, imprinted a reasonable score of kisses on her face in spite of the girl's protestations and endeavors to tear herself away.

"I am looking at you!" said a voice from overhead.

It was Doña Rosalía. In spite of the jocose tone in which she spoke, Maximina was so startled that she let the candle fall, and they were left in perfect darkness, until Doña Rosalía, choking with laughter, came with a lamp; but her niece had disappeared.

"Did you ever see a girl like her? She is going to be married to-morrow, and yet she is as bashful as though she had known you only since yesterday.... Most likely she has locked herself up in her room.... It will make you some trouble to get her out now!"

Miguel went up to her room and called gently at the door.

There was no answer.

"Maximina," he said, with difficulty restraining his laughter.

"I don't want to! I don't want to!" replied the girl, with amusing desperation.

"But what is it that you do not want to do?"

"I don't want to come out!"

"Ah! you don't want to come out?... Then see here; the curé is not going to marry us with so much wood separating us!..." A few minutes of silence followed. Miguel put his mouth down to the key-hole, and said, lowering his voice:—

"Why won't you open the door, tonta[1]?... Does it make you feel bashful?"

"Yes," whispered the girl, on the other side.

"Don't be alarmed! Your aunt isn't here."

After some time, and by dint of many persuasive words, she made up her mind to open the door. Even then she was blushing to her ears. Miguel captured her hands, and said, with a gentle reproach in his voice:—

"Come now, little rogue, why didn't you wait for me on the balcony?... Why, I looked for you there until I almost put my eyes out! But not a sign of Maximina!"

"Yes, yes!"

"What does 'yes, yes' mean? Did you wait for me?"

"I have been on the balcony ever since dinner! I saw you get into the boat; I saw you talking and laughing with Ursula; and I saw you jump on shore, and then from the other balcony I saw you when you reached the square...."

"That last I know you did.... But we shall see; when are you going to dismount from your high horse? Are you going to treat me this way after we are married?"

"Oh, no!"

They went down into the parlor, where they found Don Valentín, Adolfo, and the girls, who warmly welcomed the young man. The welcome extended him by the ex-captain was not unlike that of an uncommunicative whale; but there was something about him that made it evident that he was satisfied.

Doña Rosalía at that instant came in; and when she saw Maximina, she could not refrain from laughing, whereupon the maiden dashed out of the room with all haste, and flew up the stairs like a hurricane: but Miguel succeeded in overtaking her before she reached her chamber. While he was exhausting all his powers of persuasion to induce her to return with him to the sitting-room, Doña Rosalía, vexed at her running away, called from below:—

"Leave her, Don Miguel; leave that foolish little goose! I don't see how any one can fall in love with her! ough! what a simpleton!"

Of course Maximina, at this new indignity, began to cry; but Miguel was there to comfort her, and no one in the world could do so with greater success.

After a little, the lovers came down again, and quite a little tertulia or reception, composed of neighbors who dropped in to congratulate them, was held in the parlor. Doña Rosalía did not appear for some time. She was unquestionably annoyed with her niece because of her terrible crime of being bashful.

The nucleus of the tertulia was formed by a dozen young girls eager to see Miguel's gifts; and he, by refusing to accede to this desire, which he could scarcely understand, gave them an hour of real torture. At last Doña Rosalía called him aside and assured him that it would be the proper thing for him to exhibit them.

The young man was persuaded to do this, and he dragged into the middle of the room his trunk and a grip-sack in which he had brought some jewels. He pulled out the two solitary dresses which he had brought for his bride: the one she was to wear during the ceremony; the other was her travelling-dress. Both aroused great admiration by their softness and elegance; the same with the set of diamonds and pearls. The village maidens could not handle and praise these trinkets enough, and they showed by the extravagance of their exclamations that they regarded the possession of such things as the greatest joy in the world.

Maximina, standing behind, with her eyes wide open, looked on with more astonishment than curiosity; her young friends from time to time cast on her vivacious and questioning glances, to which she answered with a slight and unnatural smile, without losing the frightened expression from her face; this was even increased when she saw lifted out of the trunk her wedding-dress made of white silk trimmed with orange flowers. A deep color spread over her face, and neither the flush nor her trepidation departed from her during the evening.

They spent the time in gayly singing and dancing to the music of the guitar. Don Valentín—oh, unheard of gallantry!—danced a zorcio with a handsome maiden, who, by her persuasive eloquence succeeded in warming up his heels; but he had to give it up suddenly in disgust, owing to an excruciating attack of the gout which paralyzed his right foot. His sweet spouse consoled him by saying:—

"Fine employment that is for you!... Simply to show off!"

Miguel danced the giraldilla, constantly taking Maximina for his partner. When they became tired, they would go and sit down together in some corner of the room and exchange few words, but numberless glances. The brigadier's son, seeing that his lady-love was suffocating, took a fan and began to fan her; but Maximina, noticing that they were watched and that some smiled, stopped him, gently saying:—

"I don't need to be fanned, thank you very much. You are much more heated than I...."

"Why do you address me so formally?[2] Is that the way we ought to do?"

"Well, then, thou art more heated than I.... Fan thyself."

At ten o'clock all departed, taking leave of the lovers, with smiles more or less malicious.

"Good night, Maximina; sleep well."—"Your last night of maidenhood, dear! Beware! Your last night!" said one ancient matron, the mother of at least eleven sons.

Maximina smiled, abashed.

"Adiós! adiós!... How it will pain us to have you leave us!"

And a few of the young maidens kissed her again and again, with great manifestations of love.

"Girl, don't you forget that this is your last night of maidenhood! Ponder on it! It is a solemn thing!" said the matron once more.

Again Maximina smiled.

Then the old woman frowned, and whispered to the one who was standing next her:—

"That child imagines that she is going on a pilgrimage! Ay Diós! It is evident that she has not a grain of feeling. Marriage is a very serious affair ... very serious." And until she reached her own house she did not cease discoursing long and learnedly on the seriousness of this tie.

Our lovers were left with Doña Rosalía and Don Valentín; the children had already gone to bed,—the youngest, Adolfo, whom his mother had been obliged to take to his room by main force and the promise to wake him on the next day in time to be present at the ceremony. Don Valentín likewise bade them good night and went to his room. Miguel and Maximina sat down on two low chairs, and began to whisper, while Doña Rosalía, still in bad humor, decided to knit until it should seem good to her to put an end to the session, which should be within a very few minutes.

Miguel noticed that Maximina was absent-minded and somewhat nervous.

"What is the matter?... I can see by thy face that something troubles thee.... Art thou not content to be my wife?"

"Oh, yes! There is nothing the matter."

"Then, why this absent-mindedness?"

She hung her head and did not answer. Miguel insisted upon knowing:—

"Come, tell me, what are you thinking about?"

"I want to ask a favor of you, ..." she whispered timidly.

"Only one? I would like you to ask me five hundred, and that I might grant them!"

"If I might ... if you would let me be married in one of my own dresses...."

The young man remained for a moment lost in amazement: then he asked sadly:—

"Don't you wish to be married in the dress that I brought you?"

"It would be very mortifying to me!"

"Besides, it is the fashion to be married in a white dress; especially for maidens like you!"

"Here it is not the fashion.... I should be mortified to death!"

Miguel tried to persuade her, but in vain. After exhausting his arguments, which were not very varied, he was anxious to come to a settlement of the difficulty. But Doña Rosalía had noticed something, and lifting her head, she asked:—

"What does this mean? You were not quarrelling, I hope?"

"Nothing, Doña Rosalía; Maximina does not wish to be married in the white dress,—because it would mortify her."

These words instantly put the tobacconist's wife into a storm of fury:—

"And you take any notice of this blockhead's notions? How does she know what she wants, or what she does not want? Did you ever see the like?... Such a splendid dress as you have brought her too!... It must have cost a fortune!... And what does she want done with this dress?..."

The brigadier's son, understanding what was passing through his sweetheart's mind, slyly took her hand, and gave it a hearty pressure. Maximina, who was confused and pained, recovered her courage.

"There is no reason to be disturbed, Doña Rosalía, for the matter is not worth it. If Maximina does not wish to be married in white, it is simply because it is not the fashion here. The fault was on my side in having brought the dress without consulting her first. As to what is to be done with it, Maximina has given me an idea; she desires that it be presented to the Virgin of the Church of St. Peter."

The girl, who had said nothing of the sort, pressed his hand to show her gratitude. Doña Rosalía was ambitious of having her niece's dress make a sensation in the village; consequently she still insisted that such a thing should not be done. Nevertheless, Miguel stood firm, taking his maiden's part, and arguing that she was right. Finally Doña Rosalía, unable to hide her indignation, swept out of the room, leaving them alone.

Miguel shrugged his shoulders, and said to the girl, who was greatly disturbed:—

"Don't be worried, dearie. You are in all good rights my wife, and you are under no obligation to obey any one else."

Maximina gave him a tender look of gratitude. And feeling that it was not proper for them to be absolutely alone, she arose, intimating that she wished to go to bed.

It was necessary for them to be up bright and early the next morning. The hour for the ceremony was fixed at half-past five. Miguel also arose, although unwillingly, and his betrothed went to get him a candle from the kitchen. As she was on the point of handing it to him, he said in a jesting tone:—

"Art thou quite sure that we are to be married to-morrow?"

Maximina looked at him with wide-open eyes.

"You had better beware! for there is even now time for me to change my mind. Who knows but what I may make my escape this night, and when morning comes half the people may be absent from the wedding?"

Maximina forced herself to smile. Miguel, who noticed how seriously she took his words, came to her relief, saying:—

"What an innocent little puss you are! Could it be possible that I would throw away my happiness! When a man is lucky enough to find it in this world, he must cling fast hold of it. Within a few hours nothing can separate us. Adiós—my wife!"

The young man uttered these words as he started up stairs. From the top of the stairway he smiled down on the girl, who had stopped motionless at the parlor door, still evidently a little disturbed by the jest that he had made.

"Till to-morrow! isn't it so?"

Maximina nodded her head.

That night was not one of sleeplessness for Miguel, as the night before a man's marriage, they say, is apt to be. Not a single sad foreboding passed through his mind; no fear, no impetuous eagerness; his determination was so firm and rational, it was so vigorously supported by his intellect and his heart, that there was no room for that unhealthy agitation and dread which attack us at the moment of adopting some weighty resolution. So far as Maximina was concerned, he was sure of being happy. So far as he himself was concerned, he would do his best to be happy. Once and forever dispossessed of the vainglorious desire of "making a brilliant marriage," he was convinced that no woman was better suited to him than this one. Never once did the fever of a hot and violent passion cause him any discomfort. The love that he felt was intense but calm; neither wholly spiritual, nor wholly material, but a union of both. As soon as he reached his room, he spent a few moments thinking about his betrothed, and then finding himself overpowered by drowsiness, he blew out his light and fell into deep sleep.

Before it was five o'clock, the chamber-maid's voice woke him. It was still pitch dark, and would be so for some time. He lighted the candle, and dressed himself carefully. He was quick about it, though his hands trembled a little. As the solemn moment approached, he could not entirely conquer his nervous and impressionable nature.

When he went down into the parlor, quite an assembly was already gathered; not only those who had been there the evening before, but others besides. All were dressed in their most brilliant attire. Doña Rosalía, who was to be the madrina, wore a dress of black merino, and was adorned with a few jewels of small value. Don Valentín, the padrino, had pulled out from the bottom of the trunk the dress-coat in which he had been painted when he became a ship's mate; it was a coat of ample circumference, with a narrow collar and very short sleeves: the ex-captain of the Rápido wore it with the same grace and dexterity as he did his best shirt. In the starched and crimped bosom shone two large amethysts which he had bought in 1842 in Manilla; over his vest and around his neck hung his watch-chain; the watch was gold and had a seal adorned with opals. But it was in his feet that Don Valentín took the greatest pride: his wife had always boasted (because he was wholly incapable of boasting about anything) that there were no others in the village so short and well-turned; wherefore, the old sailor, in honor of this solemn occasion, felt called upon to give such a shine to his boots that they equalled "the moons of Venice"; but solely for the purpose of affording the companion of his life a new and pure delight.

The company missed several damsels, but the report went round that they were engaged in helping dress the bride. It was not long before she made her appearance, in a modest but elegant dark blue woollen dress trimmed with black velvet; she also wore the bridegroom's costly jewels, and a bunch of orange flowers in her bosom.

When she entered the parlor, all the women kissed her, with the exception of her aunt, who, at the sight of the dress she wore, felt the terrible wound that she had received the evening before, open again. Maximina glanced at her timidly three or four times, and went of her own accord to kiss her. But she did not once look in the direction of Miguel, who, on the other hand, devoured her with his eyes, thoroughly understanding the feeling of bashfulness that possessed her in spite of her feigned calmness.

The artistic young girls who had adorned her were far from satisfied with their work. They evidently felt tortured by those keen though insidious doubts that always attack the poet or painter during the last moments of creation. After they were all seated in their places, one would jump up and trip over deftly to set the diamond pin farther back, and another would approach her and give the sprig of orange blossoms "the least bit of a twist"; another would find it necessary slightly to rearrange the hair; and still another would smooth out a wrinkle in the dress, and another adjust it about the neck. In fact, there was a constant coming and going. Maximina allowed them to do as they pleased, and for all their efforts she thanked them with a smile.

"See here, Don Miguel, you have not been to confession yet, have you?" inquired Doña Rosalía.

"No; that is a fact: no one reminded me of it," replied the young man, suddenly rising. "And Maximina?"

"I have already been."

"Then let us be about it, gentlemen!"

As he went out, he again gave Maximina a keen glance, which the girl pretended not to notice.

As yet not even the first gleams of daylight tinged the eastern sky; it is true it had grown cloudy during the night, and the rain was still falling. With umbrella spread, and muffled in their great-coats, Miguel and Don Valentín made their way along the deserted street.

Never had starry and diaphanous night in August seemed more beautiful to our hero: this early morning chill, damp and melancholy, remained graven on his heart as the loveliest of his life. The church offered a still more gloomy and lugubrious spectacle.

They sent word to the curé, and it was not long before he came. He was an elderly gentleman, and, considering the importance of the wedding, answered with resignation the call at such an unusual hour. He led the young man gently by the hand to a dark corner of the temple, and there listened to his confession.

Miguel was still on his knees before the priest when he heard the noise of the wedding procession as it entered the church with considerable tumult, and his heart melted within him, not with sorrow at having offended God, we must confess to his shame, but with sweet and delicious longing.

After granting him absolution, the curé returned to the sacristy to robe himself, and Miguel joined his friends, without being able to catch sight of his bride. Only when the sacristan came to tell them to come to the grand altar, did he see her, accompanied by her aunt. The friends went forward, pushing their way, and met, without knowing how it was accomplished, at each other's side, near the altar and in front of the curé.

Contrary to all expectations, Maximina appeared quite calm during the ceremony, and replied to the priest's questions in a ringing voice, which pleased the good man so much that he exclaimed:—

"That is the way to answer! That is something like!... Not like those prudish girls who are crazy to get married, and yet no one can get a word out of them!"

It was not a pleasant morning to be out, but the parishioners of Saint Peter's were used to such things, and they smiled with satisfaction. The worthy father gave them his blessing, with his hands raised above them solemnly and majestically, imitating, so far as was possible, the attitude of Moses when he separated the waters of the Red Sea.

Then began the mass; the newly wedded couple and the relatives fell upon their knees. When a certain point was reached, Doña Rosalía, who understood exactly how to act, arose and threw a chain around Maximina's head, asking Don Valentín to put the other end over Miguel's shoulder. When they were thus joined together, the son of the brigadier began to move away, gently pulling at the chain. Maximina had not yet given him a glance: she paid no attention to the first pull, supposing it to be accidental; but at the second she whispered, with a smile:—

"Be quiet!"

Miguel pulled still harder.

"For Heaven's sake do take that off!"

When the service was over, those who were present, making quite a congregation, gathered around to offer them their congratulations: there were sly hand-shakings, circumspect pushing, convulsed sounds of laughter: every one was afraid of behaving unseemly in the church.

When they came out, the dawn was just breaking; a few early risers gazed curiously out of their windows to see the procession pass. Miguel had remained behind with a group of men, and once more he lost sight of Maximina, who had gone on ahead with her friends.

In Don Valentín's parlor a table was awaiting them most generously supplied with refreshments and wines, and artistically decorated. Miguel took chocolate with the witnesses; the bride had gone to her room, they said, to change her dress. In a short time he started to do the same. On one of the landing-places of the stairway he came upon his bride, with the maid buttoning her boots: both of them were startled; Maximina kept her eyes fastened on the girl's fingers; Miguel hesitated a moment, and then exclaimed, with the idea of saying something:—

"Ah! you are already dressed, then? I am going to do the same."

And as though some enemy were at his heels, he went up stairs three steps at a time.

They rejoined each other shortly after in the parlor. Maximina's gray travelling-dress and her hat, in the latest style, were very becoming to her. As the hour for their departure was now drawing near, the leave-taking began, accompanied by torrents of tears even more tempestuous than usual. On the part of the feminine sex it was a genuine flood; one young lady went so far as to faint away. Only the bride appeared serene and smiling; a fact which made her aunt unspeakably indignant, and caused her to form a very poor idea of her niece, as was shown by what she confessed afterwards to her friends:—

"What a lack of feeling! If only for the sake of appearances!"

One of Maximina's young mates went to her, bathed in tears, and kissed her.

"Aren't you weeping, Maximina?"

"I can't," replied the poor child.

Nevertheless, when her cousins, the daughters of Doña Rosalía, kissed her on the cheeks, crying, "We don't want you to go away, Maximina!" the deep flush that spread over her face and the peculiar smile that curled her lips were indications, for any one who knew her, that she was not far from turning on the flood-gates of her tears.

All, or almost all, escorted the bridal couple down to the boat in which they were to embark; but only Don Valentín and two other friends, who found room in the row-boat, accompanied them to the station.

It must be remarked that a girl belonging to the village went with the pair to Madrid, in the capacity of lady's maid: her name was Juana, and she was a fresh, strong, and rather attractive-looking damsel. Miguel, knowing his bride's character, had not wished that her maid should be an out and out Madrileña.

After they were safely in the station, and the guard's stentorian voice was heard calling the passengers to the train, Don Valentín permitted himself the unwonted luxury of being moved. He embraced his niece tenderly, and kissed her effusively on her hair. Maximina likewise showed more agitation than at any time before; but even then she made an effort to smile.

The engine whistled. The train moved out of the station. They were the only travellers in that compartment, and the young people took seats facing each other at one side: Juana, out of delicacy, sat down at the farthest end.

The husband and wife looked into each other's eyes, and Miguel felt a sweet, gentle thrill of joy, a something unspeakable and heavenly, that caused his heart to beat violently. And after making sure that Juana's attention was called away by the sights from the window, he took his bride's hand and gave it a stealthy kiss, leaning over toward her with his whole body. But the hand—how vexatious!—was gloved. In a moment he hinted to her to take off the glove. Maximina, after letting him implore her by means of expressive pantomime, at last decided, with a laugh, to remove the glove; and the young man imprinted a host of warm kisses on the soft palm, all the while watching the maid out of the corner of his eye.

Then the conversation became general between the three. Juana, who had never been beyond San Sebastian, was astonished at everything she saw, and particularly at the sheep: the hens also seemed to occupy her thoughts deeply. Miguel was assiduous in attentions to his bride. "Maximina, if your hat is in your way, you had better take it off.... Let me have it; we will hang it up there—so now it won't fall.... See here! you had better take off your heavy boots too. I have your thin shoes here in the hand-bag.... I asked your uncle for them.... Don't you want to put them on? I am afraid your feet will get cold.... Just wait a moment; I will wrap them up in my blanket...."

And, kneeling down, he wrapped up her feet with the greatest care. Joy made them so social that in a little while the husband and wife and the maid were chatting and laughing like jolly companions. Maximina made long circumlocutions, so as not to address her husband directly, because she did not want to call him "you," and at the same time she was too timid to say "thou" to him. Miguel was aware of her efforts in this direction, but he did not help her any. At last, however, after a long time and much hesitation, in reply to his question, "Shan't we have some breakfast?" she took the fatal leap, and answered timidly, "Just as thou pleasest."

Miguel hastily raised his head and affected to be amazed. "Holá señorita! what familiarity is this? You said 'thou' to me!"

Maximina blushed to her ears, and, hiding her face in her hands, exclaimed:—

"Oh! please don't speak to me so, for I won't do so again."

"What a silly puss!" said the young man, pulling away her hands gently. "That would be amusing."

Juana burst into a hearty fit of laughter.

II.

After they had breakfasted they found that they had no water. At the first stop, Juana got out, and came back with a tumblerful. There is some slight basis for the belief that during her short absence Miguel kissed his bride elsewhere than on her hand; but we have no absolute proof of it.

At Venta de Baños four travellers entered the same compartment,—three ladies and a gentleman. All were upwards of forty. From what they said it was evident that they were brother and sisters; and they spoke with a decided Galician[3] accent.

Miguel took the seat by his wife's side, and put the maid in front of them, and made up his mind to be very circumspect, so that the strangers might not suspect that they were newly married. Nevertheless, one circumstance could not escape them: the constant exchange of glances and the mysterious conversation kept up by the young people betrayed them beyond peradventure. The ladies laughed at first, then they whispered together, and finally they schemed to get into conversation with their companions; and in this they were speedily successful.

It did not take them long to find out what they wanted to know; whereupon there sprang up, for some reason or other, a lively sympathy for Maximina, and they made it perfectly manifest, and overwhelmed her with attentions. The girl, who was not used to such things, appeared confused and embarrassed, and smiled with that timid, bashful look that was characteristic of her.

This entirely won the hearts of the Galician ladies; they openly took her under their protection. They were all unmarried; the brother also. None of them had been willing to get married, "because of the grief which the mere idea of separation caused the others": they were unanimous in this assertion. As for the rest, how many proposals they had refused!

One of them,—Dolores,—according to the other two, had been engaged six years to a law student in Santiago. When he finished his studies, Dolores for some reason or other had broken their engagement, and the young lawyer had gone home, where, in his indignation, he had immediately married the richest belle of the village.

The second sister, Rita, had had several attachments, but her papa had objected to them. The young man who loved her was a poet; he was poor. Nothing could induce her papa to give up his opposition and accept him for a son-in-law. When least they thought of such a thing, he had in desperation disappeared from Santiago, after taking a tender farewell of Rita,—the lady objected to having the romantic details of this farewell related!—and nothing more was ever heard of him. Some supposed that he had perished in the claws of a tiger while searching for a gold mine in California.

As for the third, Carolina, she was a regular flyaway! Her brother and sisters had never been able to tame her down. When at home they had the greatest reason to think she was in love and that the affair was becoming serious, poum! one fine evening she suddenly jilted her lover and took a new one in his place! Carolina, who was forty-five at the very lowest reckoning, became quite rosy when she heard this report, and exclaimed, with a fascinating smile:—

"Don't you heed what they say, Maximina! How silly that girl is!... To be sure I cannot deny that I like change; but who does not? Men have to be punished from time to time, for they are very bad! very bad! Don't you be vexed, Señor Rivera.... That is the reason why I said to myself, 'I shall not give my heart to any one whatever.'"

"That means," said Rita, "that you have never been really in love!"

"Very likely; as yet I have not been troubled with those anxieties and worriments which lovers, they say, suffer from. No man ever pleased me for more than a fortnight."

"How terrible!" exclaimed Dolores and Rita, laughing.

"Don't say such things, you silly girl!"

"Why shouldn't I say what I feel, Rita?"

"Because it isn't proper. Young ladies ought to be careful what they say!"

"Come now, Carolina," urged Miguel, assuming great seriousness, "in the name of humanity I beg you to soften your hard heart and listen to some happy man!"

"Yes; fine rascals you men are!"

"Child!" cried Dolores.

"Let her alone! let her alone!" interrupted Miguel. "In time she will come to feel how wrong it is! I am in hopes that it will not be long before some one will come and avenge all of us!"

"Nonsense!"

During this banter the brother, who was a fat gentleman, with long white mustaches, snored like a sea-calf.

Maximina listened in amazement to all these things which she could scarcely comprehend, and she glanced at Miguel from time to time, trying to make out whether they were speaking in earnest or in jest. The Señoritas de Cuervo—for such was their name—were on their way to Madrid to spend the season—this was their custom every year: the remainder of the winter they spent at Santiago, and in the spring they went to a very picturesque little village, where they amused themselves in their own way, running like fawns across country, climbing trees to get cherries and figs and apples, drinking water from their hands, making excursions on mule-back to neighboring villages (what fun! what a good time they did have, madre mia!), and taking part in farm work, and drinking milk just brought in by the man from the milking.

"This sister Carolina of ours becomes unendurable as soon as we get there. She sets out early in the morning, and no one knows anything about her till dinner time; and before dinner is fairly over, she is off again, and does not get back till night!"

"How you do talk, Lola! I go out with the other girls to hunt for nests or wash clothes down by the river.... But you spend your mortal hours exchanging small talk with some silly gallant who dances attendance on you...."

"Heavens! what a cruel thing to say. I must hope, Señor Rivera, that you will not put any credence in such nonsense, without any foundation in fact.... Just imagine! all the gallants in that place are farm hands!"

"That makes no difference," replied Miguel. "Farm hands also have hearts and can love beautiful objects. I have no doubt that you have many a suitor among them."

"As to that," replied Lola, with a blush, "if I must tell the truth—yes, sir, they are very fond of me. Every year, as soon as it is known that we have come, the young men make their arrangement to give me a serenade, and they even cut down a little tree so as to get in front of my window."

"The serenade was not for you alone," interrupted Carolina, warmly.... "It is for all of us."

"But the tree was mine," replied Lola, with some show of ill-temper.

"The tree! very good; but not the serenade," replied the other, somewhat piqued.

Lola gave her a sharp look, and went on: "Judge for yourself, Señor Rivera, whether it does not show that they are in love with me: when the engineers came to build a bridge, I said that I did not like the place where they had made their arrangements to put it, but I wanted it farther back, ... and as soon as the young men of the village heard what I had said, they made a formal visit to the engineers and told them that the bridge must be put where the señorita wanted it, and that no other site for it must be thought of, because they would put a stop to it; and as the engineers were not willing to change their plans, the result was, the bridge was not built till four years ago."

"All this," said Miguel, "is not so much to your honor as to that of those intelligent young men!"

"They are such nice boys!"

"Nothing so sanctifies the soul as love and admiration," exclaimed Rivera, sententiously.

Lola said, "Ah!" and blushed.

These three ladies were dressed in an improbable, and, if we may be allowed the expression, an anachronistic style: their dresses were beautiful, picturesque, and even rather fantastic, such as suited only maidens of fifteen. Carolina wore her hair in two braids with silk ribbons in the ends, and constricted her flabby and wrinkled neck with a blue velvet band from which hung a little emerald crucifix: the others, in their attempt to be a little more fashionable, had their hair done up, but they wore just as many ribbons and other ornaments.

The evening was already at hand.

The Cuervo family proposed to have dinner, and hospitably invited their new-made friends to partake of the luncheon that they had brought with them; Rivera and his bride accepted, and likewise offered to share their provisions, and with all good-fellowship and friendliness they all set to work to make way with them, having first spread napkins over their knees.

The brother, who had waked up just in time, fed like an elephant; during dinner time he made few remarks, but they were to the point: one of them was this:—

"I am a regular eagle as far as tomatoes are concerned!"

Miguel sat in silent wonder for some time, but at last he began to appreciate the depth hidden in this hyperbolical sentence.

A close intimacy had sprang up among them all. Dolores, not satisfied with calling Miguel by his Christian name, instead of his title, proposed that she and Maximina should go to the extent of addressing each other with "thou":—

"I cannot feel that a person is my friend unless I can 'thee and thou' her.... Besides, it is customary among girls."

The bride smiled timidly at this strange proposition, and the Galician ladies, without further excuse began to make use of the second personal pronoun. But Maximina, though warmly urged, could not bring herself to such a degree of intimacy, and before she knew it, she dropped into the ordinary form,[4] whereupon the Cuervo ladies showed that they felt affronted; the poor child found herself obliged to make use of numberless round-about expressions to avoid addressing them directly.

Miguel, in order to take a humorous revenge upon them for the annoyance that they caused his wife, began in turn to speak to them with great familiarity; and, though this for a moment surprised them, they took it in perfectly good part. Not satisfied with this, he soon took occasion to shake the white-mustachioed gentleman rudely by the arm, saying:—

"See here, old boy, don't sleep so much! Wouldn't you like a little gin?"

Don Nazario—for that was his name—opened his eyes in sudden terror, drained the cup that was offered him, and immediately fell into another doze.

It was really time for them all to do the same. So Miguel drew the shade of the lamp, and so "that the light might not trouble their eyes," he also doubled around it a folded newspaper. Thus the car was made dark; only the pale starlight gleamed in through the windows.

It was a clear, cold January night, such as are peculiar to the plains of Castille. Each passenger got into the most comfortable position possible, snuggling down into the corners. Rivera said to his wife:—

"Lean your head on my shoulder. I cannot sleep in the train."

The girl did as she was bidden, in spite of herself; she was afraid of incommoding him.

All was quiet. Miguel managed to get hold of one of her hands, and gently caressed it. After a while, leaning his head over and touching his lips to his wife's brow, he whispered very softly:—

"Maximina, I adore you," and then he repeated the words with even more emotion, "Te adóro, te adóro!"

The girl did not reply; but feigned to be asleep. Miguel asked with persuasive voice:—

"Do you love me? Do you?"

The same immobility.

"Tell me! do you love me?"

Then Maximina, without opening her eyes, made a slight sign of assent, and added:—

"I am very sleepy."

Miguel, perceiving the trembling of her hands, smiled, and said:—

"Then go to sleep, darling."

And now nothing was to be heard in the compartment, except Don Nazario's snoring, in which he was a specialist. He usually began to snore in a deliberate and solemn manner, in decided, full pulsations; gradually it increased in energy, the periods became shorter and more energetic, and at the same time a sort of guttural note was introduced, which was scarcely perceptible at first; from the nostrils the voice descended into the gullet, rising and falling alternately for a long time. But, when least expected, within that apparently invariable rhythm, would be heard a sharp and shrill whistle, like the bugle blast of an on-coming tempest. And, in fact, the whistle would find an answer in a deep and ominous rumble, and then another still louder, and then another; ... then the whistling would be repeated in a more terrific fashion, and that would be drowned in a confused murmur of discordant notes fit to inspire the soul with terror. And this conflict of sounds would go on increasing and increasing, until at last, some way or other, it would be suddenly changed into an asthmatic and blatant cough. Then Don Nazario would heave a deep sigh, rest a few short moments, and continue his reverberant oration in measured and dignified tone.

Miguel dozed with his eyes open. His imagination was thronged tumultuously by radiant visions, a thousand foregleams of happiness: life presented itself in sweet and lovely aspect before him, such as it had never hitherto assumed. He had amused himself, he had enjoyed the pleasures of the world; but ever behind them, and sometimes in the midst of them, he perceived the bitter residuum, the wake of weariness and pain which the demon of passion traces across the lives of his worshippers. What a difference now! His heart told him: "Thou hast done well! thou wilt be happy!" And his intellect, weighing carefully and comparing the value of what he had left behind with what he had chosen, likewise gave him its approval.

For a long time he remained awake, feeling the weight of his wife's head resting on his shoulder. From time to time he looked down at her, and though he saw that her eyes were shut, he was inclined to think that she was not asleep.

Finally sleep overcame him. When he opened his eyes, the compartment was already full of the early morning light. He looked at his wife, and saw that she was wide awake.

"Maximina," said he, in a low voice, so as not to disturb the others, "have you been awake long?"

"No; only a little while," said the girl, sitting up.

"And why didn't you sit up?"

"Because I was afraid of disturbing you if I moved."

"But how much I would rather have had you wake me! Don't you know that I have been wanting to talk with you?"

And the young couple began to converse in such low voices that they divined rather than heard each other's words; all the time, the Cuervo sisters, their brother, and Juana were sleeping in various and original positions. What did they talk about? They themselves did not know: words have a conventional value, and all of theirs, without a single exception, expressed the same idea.

Miguel, cautious of speaking about themselves, because he noticed that it embarrassed Maximina, turned the conversation to some pleasing subject and tried to make her laugh, so that her natural bashfulness might wear away. Nevertheless, he took the risk of once asking her, with a keen glance:—

"Are you happy?"

"Yes."

"Aren't you sorry that you are mine?"

"Oh, no! If you only knew!..."

"Knew what?"

"Nothing, nothing!"

"Yes; you were going to say something: tell me!"

"It was nonsense."

"Tell me, then! I have the right now to know even the most trifling thing that passes through your mind."

He was obliged to insist long and tenderly before he succeeded in finding out.

"Come now; whisper it in my ear."

And he adroitly led her on. Finally Maximina whispered:—

"I had a very miserable night, Friday."

"Why?"

"After you told me that you still had time to leave me, I could not think of anything else. I imagined that you said it with a peculiar meaning. I kept walking up and down the room all night. Ay madre mia! how it made me feel! I was up before any one else in the house, and I tiptoed in my bare feet to your room: then I laid my ear to the key-hole to see if I could hear you breathing; but nothing! What a feeling of dismay I had! When the maid got up, I asked her with a real sense of dread if you had been called. She told me 'Yes,' and I drew a long breath. But still I was not entirely myself: I was afraid that when the curé asked if you loved me, you would say 'No.' When I heard you say 'Yes,' my heart gave a bound of joy, and I said to myself, 'Now you are mine!'"

"And indeed I am!" exclaimed the young man, kissing her forehead.

The train was now rolling along across the plains near Madrid. The Señoritas de Cuervo awoke; the daylight was not very flattering to their natural beauties, but a series of delicate manipulations which gave convincing proof of their artistic aptitude, quickly worked a change. From a great Russia-leather dressing-case they took out combs, brushes, pomade, hairpins, rice powder, and a rouge pot, and amid a thousand affectionate words and infantile caresses, they proceeded to arrange and retouch each other's toilettes with the most scrupulous care.

"Come, child, stand still!... If you aren't careful, I shall pinch you.... Mercy, what a naughty girl you are!"

"I am nervous, Lola, I am nervous!"

"Everybody knows that you are going to see somebody very soon, and I am not going to tell."

"What a goose you are! Rivera will be sure to believe you!"

Maximina, with her eyes opened wide, looked in amazement at this improvised toilette. The De Cuervos begged her to follow their example, and then she suddenly awoke from her stupor, and thanked them with embarrassment.

Our travellers found la brigadiera Angela[5] and Julia waiting for them at the station. The latter hugged and kissed her sister-in-law again and again; the former offered her hand, and also kissed her on the forehead.

After taking leave of their travelling acquaintances, with a thousand friendly promises, they entered the carriage which la brigadiera had brought. Julia insisted that her mother and the bride should occupy the back seat; she herself could not take her eyes from her new sister, and she held her hands, pressing them affectionately all the time. Maximina endeavored to conquer her timidity and appear affectionate, and by a mighty effort she succeeded.

Miguel's step-mother showed herself affable and courteous, but still it was impossible for her to get entirely rid of that proud and scornful mien that was always peculiar to her. The bride from time to time cast fleeting and timid glances at her.

On reaching the house, Julia ran ahead to show the way to the suite of rooms that were put at their disposal; she herself had arranged them with the greatest care. Not a single detail was lacking: never had forethought been more successful in providing all the necessities of a woman's life, from flowers and sewing-case to glove-buttoner and hairpins. Unfortunately Maximina could not appreciate these refinements of elegance and good taste: everything was for her equally new and lovely.

Miguel met his sister in the corridor.

"Where is Maximina?"

"I left her in her room, taking off her wraps. She is waiting for her maid to bring her shoes."

"Then I'm going to take off my things too, and brush my hair a little," said the young man, rather awkwardly.

Julia stifled a laugh, and ran away.

When Miguel reached his room, he took off his overcoat, and going to his wife, who was still in her gray travelling-suit, he pressed her to his heart, and kissed her again and again. Then taking her hand and drawing her to a chair, he seated her on his knees, and began to kiss her passionately.

Maximina grew as red as a cherry, and though she was conscious that all this sort of thing was eminently proper, she managed gently to escape from his arms. Miguel, who himself felt rather confused, allowed her to get up and leave the room: he followed her shortly after.

It was Sunday, and they had to go to mass. As la brigadiera and Julia had already been, Maximina, Miguel, and Juana were the only ones to go, and they chose San Ginez. The maid, who would not have considered it as going to church at all if she did not have a full view of the priest from head to foot, made her way through the crowd and took her place near the altar. The young couple stationed themselves a little farther back. Never before had the incruental sacrifice seemed so beautiful to Miguel, and never had he taken so much joy in it, although his imagination did not wing its flight exactly in the direction of Golgotha, nor were his eyes always turned toward the officiating clergyman. Heaven, which is ever very merciful to the newly wedded, has ere this forgiven him these shortcomings.

After breakfast Miguel proposed a walk through the Retiro[6]; the afternoon, though cold, was calm and clear. La brigadiera did not care to accompany them, but what delight Julita took in helping her sister-in-law dress, and in giving the last touches to her toilette! She selected the dress for her to wear, and helped her put it on; she arranged her hair according to the fashion, fastened on her jewelry, and the flowers in her bosom, and even brushed her boots. She was rosy with delight in performing these offices. As soon as they reached the street, she walked along by her side, intoxicated with pride, in a sweetly patronizing way, as though saying: "Just behold this young creature, even younger than I am! And yet she is a married lady! Treat her with great respect!"

Before reaching the Park, Miguel, accidentally looking back, saw in the dim distance of the Calle de Alcalá, diminished by the density of the ambient air, the delicate profile of Utrilla, that famous cadet of yore, and he said calmly to his wife:—

"Now, Maximina, though we seem to be mere private citizens going out for a walk to sun ourselves in the Retiro, still we have a military escort."

Julita blushed.

"An escort? I see no one," exclaimed Maximina, turning her head.

"It is not so easy; but by and by I will give you the glass, and see if you will be able to make him out."

Julita pressed her hand, and whispered:—

"Don't mind what this foolish fellow says."

They were by this time in the Park, and Utrilla's profile was growing more and more distinct in the clear and delicious atmosphere slightly warmed by the sun.

Maximina walked along, and gazed with a mixture of surprise and awe at the throng of gentlemen and ladies passing her, and impudently staring at her face and dress with that haughty, inquisitorial look which the Madrileños are accustomed to assume as they pass each other. And she even imagined that she heard remarks made about her behind her back:—

"That is a costly dress, yes, indeed! but that child does not have any style about wearing it! She looks like a little saint from the country."

This did not offend her, because she was perfectly convinced of her insignificance by the side of such a gran señor and señora; but it made her a little homesick not to see a single friendly face, and she half clung to her husband's side as if to seek shelter from the vague and unfair hostility which she saw around her.

But as she glanced at him she saw that he too was walking along with a haughty frown, and that his face showed the same scornful indifference and the same bored expression with all the others. And her heart all the more sank within her, because she was not as yet aware that the sentiment in vogue in Madrid is hate, and that even if it is not felt, it is the thing to pretend to show it, at least in public.

But it was not to be expected that our heroine should as yet have become versed in all these refinements of modern civilization.

After they had walked around the Park several times, Miguel said to his sister:—

"See here, Julita, why hasn't Utrilla joined us, now that mamma isn't with us?"

"Because I do not wish it," replied Julita, quick as a flash and with great decision.

"And why don't you wish it?"

"Because I don't!"

Miguel looked at her a moment, with a quizzical expression, and said:—

"Well, then, just as you please."

During their walk Utrilla, with incredible geometrical skill, cut a series of circles, ellipses, parabolas, and other incomprehensible and erratic curves, the focus of which was constantly our friends. When they went home, he took a straight line, so well reckoning the measure of his powers that the outline of his silhouette all the way just came short of being blotted out on the edge of the horizon.

Before going into the house they went to the Swiss restaurant[7] to drink chocolate. While they were there, Rivera saw for a single instant the cadet's face pressed against the window-pane.

"Julita, won't you let me go out and ask that boy to take chocolate with us?"

"I don't wish you to! I don't wish you to!" exclaimed the young lady, in an almost frantic tone.

There was nothing left for it but lo let her have her own way and torture the unhappy son of Mars.

"Maximina, I suppose that you don't know," said the cruel little Madrileña, as they were going into the house, "what we call such lads as the one who followed us to the door!"

"No; what?"

"Encerradores."[8]

And laughing, she ran up stairs.

Dinner passed in social and friendly converse. La brigadiera was beaming that day, as Miguel used to say; she talked a great deal for her, and went so far as to relate in her pleasant Seville accent a number of anecdotes about people of note in Madrid.

But when they came to dessert, Maximina began to feel somewhat uneasy, because it had been agreed among them all that they should stay at home that evening, and go to bed betimes, for they were all tired, especially la brigadiera and Julita, who had arisen so early that morning.

The problem of getting up from the table and retiring appeared terribly formidable to the young girl of Pasajes.

Fortunately, la brigadiera and Julita were both in good humor; dessert was taken leisurely, and no one beside herself noticed it. As the moments passed, her embarrassment increased, and she felt a strange trembling come over her, preventing her, in spite of herself, from taking part in the conversation. And, indeed, just as she feared, the moment came when the conversation began to languish. Miguel, in order to hide the small modicum of embarrassment which he also felt, did his best to set it going again, and his success was remarkable for a quarter of an hour.

But the end inevitably came at last. La brigadiera yawned two or three times; Julita looked at the clock, and saw that it was half-past nine. Maximina fixed her eyes on the table-cloth and played with her napkin-ring, while her husband, overcome by a decided feeling of awkwardness, made his chair squeak.

At last Julita jumped up suddenly, hurried from the dining-room, and immediately returned with a small candlestick in her hand, quickly went to her sister-in-law and kissed her cheek, saying, "Good night."[9] And she ran out of the room again, with a smile on her lips to hide the embarrassment which she felt in common with the others.

"Well, young people," said la brigadiera arising with emphasis, "let us retire; we all feel the need of rest.... Isabel, make a light in the guest chamber."

Maximina, blushing to her ears, and scarcely able to move, owing to her timidity, went to kiss her. Miguel did the same; and though he felt a genuine sense of awkwardness, he cloaked it under the smile of a man of the world.

III.

Miguel, though he had as yet said nothing about it, had made up his mind to live in a separate house, though it should be near his step-mother's. When Julita learned this decision, she felt deeply grieved, and could not help being indignant with her brother. It was not long, though, before she came to see that he was right.

La brigadiera treated Maximina with all the kindness of which she was capable; Julita overwhelmed her with attentions and caresses, but, nevertheless, it was impossible to overcome her diffidence. She did not dare ask for anything which she wanted, and so time and again she went without it. At table, when she wished to be helped to anything, the most that she would do would be to give Miguel a covert hint to have it passed. She never thought of giving any orders to the house-servants; only her maid Juana she ventured to call to her aid in the various requirements of her position.

Miguel began to feel a little annoyed about it, because he could not help imagining that his wife, in spite of her happy face, was not very well contented where she was, and he had even gently chided her for her lack of confidence.

One day not long after their arrival, as he was coming in from out of doors, and was just about going to his rooms, Juana called him aside, with an air of great mystery, and said:—

"Señorito, I want to tell you something that you ought to know.... La señorita has been used to have a lunch when she was at home.... And here she does not like to ask for it.... To-day she sent me out to buy a few biscuits.... See, I have them here."

"Why, my poor little girl!" exclaimed Miguel, in real grief. "But how foolish of her!"

"Don't for Heaven's sake let her know that I told you, for then she would not trust me any longer."

"How careless I have been."

And he went to his wife's room, saying:—

"Maximina, I have come in hungry as a bear; I can't wait till dinner time. Please run down to the dining-room and tell them to bring me up some lunch."

"What would you like?"

"Anything—whatever you had for your lunch." The young girl was embarrassed.

"The fact is ... I ... I have not had any lunch to-day."

"Why not?" exclaimed Miguel, with a great show of surprise. "Why, here it is almost six o'clock.... Didn't they bring you anything? See here, Juana, Juana" (calling in a loud voice), "call Señorita Julia...."

"What are you going to do? for Heaven's sake what are you going to do?" cried the girl, full of terror.

"Nothing; merely to find out why they have not brought you any sweetmeats, or a piece of pie, or whatever you take...."

"But I did not ask for anything!"

"That makes no difference; it is their business always to bring you whatever you are used to having."

"What did you want, Miguel?" asked Julia, coming in.

"I wanted to ask why it was that Maximina hasn't been served with lunch, and here it is almost six o'clock."

Julia, in her turn, was confused.

"Why, it was because ... because Maximina doesn't take lunch."

"What do you mean ... doesn't take lunch?" exclaimed Miguel, in astonishment.

"I asked her about it the very first day, and she told me that she was not in the habit of taking lunch."

Miguel gazed at Maximina, who blushed as though she had been detected in some heinous crime.

"Then I will tell you that she does," he said, raising his voice and turning upon Julia with stern countenance. "I tell you that she always is accustomed to have one, and you have done very wrong, knowing her disposition, not to insist upon it, or at least not to have asked me about it."

"For Heaven's sake, Miguel!" murmured Maximina, in a tone of real anguish.

Julia flushed deeply, and turning on her heels, hastened from the room. Maximina remained like one petrified.

Her husband, with a frowning face, strode up and down the room several times, and then followed his sister and went straight to the dining-room, where he found her very melancholy, taking out some plates. Giving her a caress, and bursting into a laugh, he said:—

"I knew well that Maximina did not ask for lunch. Don't mind what I said to you. I put her in this painful position to see if I could not cure her of her bashfulness."

"Then you had better be careful! your gun went off at the wrong end, for it was I whom you hit!" answered the young girl, really vexed. "And so you are trying to make it up by flattery!"

"Hello! We aren't jealous, are we?"

"You would like to have me be, you silly fellow."

"Well, I confess that I should," said Miguel, taking her in his arms and giving her a little bite on the neck. "It seems to me that jealousy has made its appearance."

"Stop! stop it! you goose!" she replied, trying to escape from him. "Can't you behave, Miguel? Let me alone, Miguel!"

And after a violent struggle she tore herself away from her brother's arms, and ran angrily from the room, while her brother stayed behind, laughing.

In the days that followed it became evident that Maximina had won the good graces of every one in the house. Nor could it have been otherwise, considering her sweet, sensible, and modest nature. Nevertheless, Miguel could not help feeling somewhat annoyed that advantage should be taken of this, and that her wishes were not in the least consulted, but that the programme for the day—walks and drives, theatres, shopping and calls—should be laid out without even asking her if she would not prefer to stay at home.

This largely hastened his departure, and he selected a very large and handsome flat in the neighborhood. It was rather beyond his means, but he counted on making up the extra amount by cutting off superfluities.

Our hero found great amusement in going with his wife to purchase the furniture that was needed. The edge of his enjoyment, however, was dulled by the fact that la brigadiera and Julia were very apt to join them, and then of course their right of choice was abrogated, and even the expression of opinion was denied them. Miguel was not a little disturbed by this, and therefore, whenever it was possible, avoided having his step-mother accompany them; but to his surprise, Maximina did not even then show herself any better satisfied nor disposed to give her views.

It seemed as though she were indifferent to everything, and were unfavorably impressed by a luxury to which she had never been accustomed. From time to time she ventured timidly to say that such and such a wardrobe or sofa was pretty, but "very expensive!"

Miguel several times felt impatient at her indifference, but quick repentance seized him when he saw how much it affected her if he spoke curtly to his wife, and he merely rallied her on her economical tendencies.

What pleased Maximina most in these excursions was to walk with her husband alone through the streets; but still, in spite of all his entreaties, she could not bring herself to take his arm in the daytime.

"It would make me feel embarrassed; everybody is looking at us."

"What they are surprised at is, that I ever fell in love with such an ugly piece of humanity!"

Maximina lifted her big eyes to him with a timid smile, and looked her gratitude.

"I am surprised myself ... when I see so many pretty women all around; I can't imagine how you happened to choose me...."

"Because I am famous for my bad taste."

"That must be it."

Miguel with real feeling secretly gave her hand a hearty squeeze.

When it was evening, the case was very different. Then she consented to lean on his arm, and did not try to hide the immense pleasure that it gave her. But if they came into the glare of a shop window, she would find some excuse to withdraw her arm.

One night when they went out, Miguel, either through thoughtlessness or as a joke, did not offer her his arm. After a while Maximina, as though adopting an energetic resolution after long hesitation, suddenly took his arm. Miguel looked at her and smiled:—

"Holá! who taught you to take what belonged to you?"

The girl hung her head and blushed, but she did not let go.

La brigadiera found her step-son's wife very much to her mind, although she felt sorry that he had stooped so low; thus she expressed herself to Julia and her friends: she said nothing to Miguel, but she did not leave him in doubt as to her favorable opinion.

Nevertheless, he did not become any easier in mind, because he perceived that his step-mother was beginning to exercise over his young wife the same absolute and tyrannical power as over Julia, only, if anything, more openly, owing to the more gentle and timid nature of the former. Nor could he deny that affection in such people as la brigadiera is always in direct proportion to the degree of submission shown by those with whom they come into relationship.

One afternoon when Julia had just left their room, Maximina exclaimed in an outburst of enthusiasm:—

"How I do like your sister!"

Miguel gave her a keen glance:—

"And mamma?"

" ... I like her too," replied the young wife.

He asked her no more questions, but that very day the son of the brigadier told the landlord that he should not be able to take the third floor of that house, and chose another in the Plaza de Santa Ana. The excuse that he gave his family for this change was, that he could not live so far away from the office of his paper, now that he was going to take a more active part in the editing of it.

And in truth he did not regret it; it was not long before he became convinced of the wisdom of his decision, and congratulated himself upon it. It happened that one day after he had been superintending the arrangement of his new quarters, he met Maximina, and saw that her eyes were red as though she had been weeping. His heart told him that something had gone wrong, and he inquired with solicitude:—

"What is the matter? You have been crying!"

"No," replied the girl, with a smile. "I have just been washing my face."

"Yes; you washed your face, but you had been crying. Tell me! tell me quick, what was it?"

"Nothing."

"Very well, then," replied the young man, with determination; "I will find out."

And he did; Juana told him, though with some confusion of detail, what had taken place.

"Just listen, señorito; apparently la señora told the señorita several days ago that she did not like it for her to be so late about getting dressed, because there might be callers. Ever since, the señorita has got ready in good season, but to-day she somehow forgot about it, and la señora scolded her...."

"What did she say?"

"I don't know. La señorita did not want to tell me ... but she cried hard enough."

Miguel went to his room, flushed with anger.

"Maximina, get ready and pack your trunks.... We are going to leave this house this very moment.... I cannot allow any one to make you cry."

The young woman sat looking at her husband with an expression rather of fright than of gratitude.

"But suppose no one made me cry.... I cried without any reason for it.... I often do so.... You can ask my aunt if that is not so...."

"Nonsense! we are going this very moment."

"Oh, Miguel! for Heaven's sake don't do so."

"Yes; let us go!"

Maximina threw herself into his arms, weeping.

"Don't do this, Miguel! don't do this! Quarrel with your mother for my sake? I would rather die!"

The young man's anger cooled down a little, and at last he agreed to say nothing about his vexation, though it was decided that they should go on the following day and sleep at their new rooms.

This was done; but la brigadiera was not blinded to the facts, and she easily saw through the motives that led Miguel to hasten his departure. It is needless to say that from that time Maximina in her eyes lost a large part of her appreciation.

The carpets were laid in their apartments in the Plaza de la Santa Ana, but as yet there was little furniture; only the dining-room, one dressing-room, and their chamber were in order, and that not entirely; chairs were scattered about over the rest of the house, and this and that wardrobe and mirror were as they had been left.

Nevertheless, Miguel and Maximina found it delightful. At last they were by themselves and were masters of their own movements; they were intoxicated with the delight of their freedom. This feeling of being in his own house was fascinating to Miguel; he looked upon it as something new and extraordinary.

Maximina wanted to make the bed herself, but alas! the mattress was so heavy that she could not turn it. Seeing that she was getting flushed with exertion, Miguel took hold and helped her get it into shape, laughing heartily all the time, though he could not have told why. Now it happened that our young couple had forgotten some of the things that were indispensable for living; among others, the lamps. When darkness came on, Juana had to go out in all haste to buy candles and a few candlesticks, so that they could see to eat their supper.

This first meal all to themselves was delicious. Maximina almost always had a tremendous appetite, which she felt to be a fault, and tried to hide it, so that she was apt to leave the table, still hungry. But now, with only her husband present, and thinking that he would not notice it, she put on her plate as much as she wanted. When they were through, Miguel said:—

"You have done well! you have eaten much more than you did during the days that we were at mamma's."

Maximina flushed as though she had been detected in doing something wrong. Instantly perceiving what was passing through her mind, Miguel came to her aid:—

"Come now; I see that you did not eat there because you were so timid.... You must know that nowadays it is considered fashionable to eat a good deal.... Besides, there is nothing that gives me so much pleasure as to see any one have a good appetite; especially if I am fond of that person! Consequently, if you want to give me a pleasure, you must try to keep it up.... As far as poor stomachs are concerned, mine is sufficient in one house."

That evening they determined to stay at home; they went from the dining-room to the library, which as yet was entirely unfurnished, since Miguel wished to take his own time and consult his own taste in selecting the furniture for it. But in the dressing-room there was no fireplace, while here there was one. Juana kindled the fire and lighted a couple of candles. Miguel soon blew them out, preferring to let the fire alone light them. He wanted to go and get a couple of easy-chairs from the parlor, but Maximina said:—

"Get one for yourself, and not for me.... You will see I am going to sit down on the floor, for I like it better."

No sooner said than done; she sat down gracefully on the carpeted floor.

Her husband looked at her and smiled.

"Well, then; I am not going to get the chairs at all; I don't want to do otherwise than you do."

And he sat down by her side in front of the fireplace, the flames of which lighted up their smiling faces. The husband took his wife's hands, those plump hands, hardened but not injured by work, and passionately kissed them again and again. The wife did not want to be less affectionate than her husband, and after a little hesitation she took one of his and raised it to her lips. This little touch of innocence delighted Miguel, and he laughed.

"What makes you laugh?" asked the girl, looking at him in surprise.

"Nothing ... pleasure!"

"No; you laughed in a naughty way.... What were you laughing at?"

"Nothing, I tell you.... It's all your imagination."

"But I tell you that you were laughing at me! Have I done anything amiss?"

"What could you have done, tonta? I laughed because it is not customary for ladies to kiss the hands of gentlemen!"

"But don't you see.... I am not a lady! and you are my husband!"

"You are right, ..." said he, kissing her; ... "you are right in all that you say. Always do what your heart prompts you to do, as just now, and you need not fear of making any mistake."

The bluish flames danced gayly over the top of the coals, rising and disappearing every instant, as though they were listening to the words spoken by the young couple, and then hurrying off to report them to some gnome of the fire.

From time to time a bit of burning cinder would break off from the glowing mass, fall through the grate, and come rolling down at their feet. Then Maximina would wait till it had cooled a little, pick it up in her fingers, and toss it into the coal-hod. The only sound to be heard was the heavy rumble of carriages driving to the theatre. The conversation between husband and wife kept growing more and more lively and free. Maximina gradually lost her feeling of timidity, through the effect of Miguel's constant endeavors, and she summoned up her courage to ask him about his past life. The young man answered some of her questions frankly; others he did not hesitate to parry. Nevertheless, the young woman gathered that her husband had not been altogether what he should have been, and she was terrified.

"Ay, Miguel! how could you ever have been audacious enough to kiss a married woman? Aren't you afraid that God will punish you?"

The young man's face instantly darkened; a deep, ugly frown furrowed his brow, and for some time he remained lost in thought.

Maximina looked at him, with her eyes opened wide, and could not understand the reason for such a change in his expression.

At last, looking at the fire, he said, in a rather hoarse voice:—

"If such a thing happened in my case, and I knew of it, I am certain what I should do.... The first thing would be to turn my wife out of doors, whether it were night or day, the moment I found it out...."

Poor Maximina was startled at such an outburst, as brutal as it was unexpected, and she exclaimed:—

"You would do well. Heavens! how shameful for a woman to be so brazen!... How much better it would be for her to die!"

The frown vanished from Miguel's brow; he looked tenderly at his wife, and feeling that such a talk was both useless and out of place, he kissed her hand, and said:—

"Why should we need to talk about the evil things that are done in the world? Fortunately, I have found a means of salvation: it is this hand; I will cling hold of it and be sure of being true and pure all my life long."

"You ought to ask forgiveness of God."

"I ask forgiveness of God and you, too?"

"As for me, I freely grant it."

"Then God will, also."

"How can you know that?... Ah, how foolish I am! I had forgotten that you went to confession only a few days ago."

"Yes; that was the way," said Miguel, who had likewise forgotten about it.

Afterwards, they talked about their domestic arrangement, their furniture, and the servants that they needed to hire.

Maximina argued that Juana and a cook would be sufficient. Miguel wanted another girl to do the sewing and laundry work. It was for this reason that he explained to his wife the extent of their resources.

"I have four thousand duros[10] income, but I want to let my sister and mamma have a thousand, so that they may live decently; ... with three thousand duros a year we can get along first-rate."

"Oh! indeed we can.... Why don't you let your mamma and sister have half? Just think; they are used to luxury, and I am not.... I can get along with any kind of clothes."

"It is because I do not wish you to get along with any kind of clothes, but I want you to dress suitably."

"If you only knew how much it would please me to have you give half to your sister."

"It is impossible.... We must remember the possibility of children."

"Still, you would have a good deal left."

"You don't realize how much it costs to live in Madrid, dear."

After a moment of reflection he added:—

"On the whole, we won't do either; we will split the difference. I will allow them thirty thousand reales, and we will content ourselves with fifty thousand. What I am afraid of is, that I shall get a rascally brother-in-law who will run through the property."

Thus chatting, they spent the time till ten o'clock, and then they decided to go to bed. Miguel arose first and helped his wife to her feet; they lighted the candle and went to their room.

Maximina, according to custom, "blessed" the chamber, repeating a number of prayers which she had learned in the convent. Then they tranquilly went to sleep.

Just before dawn Miguel thought that he heard a singular noise at his side, and woke up. Instantly he was aware that his wife was kissing him on the neck, again and again, very gently, evidently with the idea of not disturbing his slumber; then, in an instant, he heard a sob.

"What is it, Maximina?" he asked, quickly turning over.

The girl's only answer was to throw her arms around him, and burst into a passion of tears.

"But what is it? Tell me quick! What is the matter?"

Choking with sobs, she managed to say:—

"Oh! I just had such bad dreams!... I dreamed that you turned me out of the house."

"Poor little darling!" exclaimed Miguel, fondling her tenderly; "your mind was impressed by what I said last evening.... I was a stupid blunderer!"

"I did not—know ... what it was—How I suffered, vírgen mia! I thought I should die! If I had not waked up I should have died!... But you are not stupid.... I am, though!"

"Well, we both are; but calm yourself," he said, kissing her.

In a few moments both were sound asleep again.

IV.

Unusual silence reigned in the editorial rooms. Nothing was heard except the scratching of steel pens on paper. The editors were seated around a great table covered with oil-cloth; two or three, however, were writing at small pine tables, set in the corners of the room.

By and by one who had a beard just beginning to turn gray, raised his head, and said:—

"Tell me, Señor de Rivera, was not the motion determined upon for the eighteenth?"

Miguel, who was writing at one of the special tables, replied without lifting his head:—

"Señor Marroquín, I can't advise you too often to be more discreet. Try to realize that all our heads are in danger, from the humblest, like Señor Merelo y García's, up to the most stately and glorious, like our very worthy chief's."

The editors smiled. One of them inquired:—

"And what has become of Merelo? He has not been here at all yet."

"He can't come till twelve," replied Rivera. "From ten till twelve he is always engaged in plotting against institutions in the Café del Siglo."

"I thought that he was in Levante."

"No; he goes there last from two till three."

The first speaker was the very same Señor Marroquín of perpetual memory, Miguel's professor in the Colegio de la Merced, a born enemy of the Supreme Creator and a man as hirsute as a biped can possibly be. This was how he happened to be here:—

One day when Miguel was just finishing his breakfast, word was brought to him that a gentleman was waiting to see him in the library. This gentleman was Marroquín, who in his appearance resembled a beggar; he was so poor, dirty, and disreputable. When he saw his old pupil, he was deeply moved, strange as it may appear, and then told him with genuine eloquence that he had not a shilling, and that he and his children were starving to death, and at the end he begged him to find a place for him on the staff of La Independencia.

"I am not the owner of the journal, my dear Marroquín. The only thing that I can do for you is to give you a letter to General Count de Ríos."

He gave him the letter, and Marroquín presented himself with it at the general's house; but he had the ill fortune to go at a most inopportune moment when the general was raging up and down through the corridors of his house, like one possessed, and calling up the repertoire of objurgations for which he had been so distinguished when he was a sergeant.

The reason was that one of his little ones had drunk up a bottle of ink, under the impression that it was Valdepeñas. Whether oaths and invectives have any decisive influence upon events or not, we are unable to state; but the general used them with as much faith as though they had been a powerful antidote.

The victim was leaning his poor little head against the partition, shedding a copious flood of tears.

"What have you brought?" roared the count, casting a wrathful look upon Marroquín.

"This letter," replied the poor man, offering it with trembling hand.

"Vomit!" roared the general, with flaming eyes.

"What?" asked the professor, timidly.

"Vomit, child, vomit! or I will shake you out of your skin!" bellowed the illustrious chief of Torrelodones, seizing his son by the neck.... "And what does the letter say?"

"It is from Señor Rivera, asking a position on La Independencia for one who admires you."

"Can't you? Then put your fingers in your mouth!.... Señor Rivera knows perfectly well that there is no position vacant; everything is full, and I am tormented to death with applications.... Let me see you stuff your fingers in, you little rascal, or I will do it myself!"

Marroquín acted prudently, by quietly opening the door and slipping out. Afterward Miguel spoke to the general at a more propitious moment and succeeded in getting Marroquín a place on the staff at a monthly salary of five hundred reales.[11]

Among the other editors of La Independencia was an apostate and liberal priest who had let his beard grow long, and used to tell his friends secrets of the confessional when he had been drinking. He was one of Marroquín's intimates: both had the same grudge against the Divinity, and both were working enthusiastically to free humanity from its yoke. Nevertheless, one day he actually became ready to quarrel with the hirsute professor for turning the Eucharist into ridicule, which confirmed the former in his idea that "the priest was changing his views."

His name was Don Cayetano.

One other of the editors was a light-haired, handsome, and bashful young man, whose seat was in one of the corners of the room, and he lifted his head only when he overheard some brilliant sentence, for such things aroused his frantic admiration. His articles were always a mosaic of sonorous, titillating euphemisms, and adjectives, which formed a large proportion of Gómez de la Floresta's repertory: he played with them like a juggler; if any one desired to make him happy, he could find no easier way than by inventing some metaphor or making use of some harmonious adjective. Rivera, who knew this weakness of his, used to indulge him in it.

"This afternoon, gentlemen, I saw a woman whose glance was as bright as a Damascus blade."

Gómez de la Floresta's face would flush with pleasure, and he would look up with a smile of congratulation:—

"That means that it was a cold and cutting glance!"

"Her skin was smooth and brilliant with marble lines; her hair fell like a golden cataract upon her swan-like neck, which was bound around with a diamond necklace, brilliant as drops of light...."

"Drops of light! How felicitous that is, Rivera! how felicitous!"

"She was a woman capable of making life Oriental for a time."

"That is it! Taking refuge with her in a minaret, breathing the perfumes of Persia, letting her pearly fingers caress our locks, drinking from her mouth the nectar of delight!"

"I am delighted, Señor de Floresta, to see that you are consistent. Let us put a stop to it, nevertheless. You have been having an attack of phrases on the brain, and I fear a fatal termination."

The editor smiled in mortification and went on with his work.

A slender young man, with prominent cheek bones, almond-shaped eyes, and awkward gait, came in, making a great confusion, and humming a few strains of a waltz; he went up to the table where Miguel was writing, and giving him a slap on the shoulder, said, with a jolly tone:—

"Holá, friend Rivera!"

Miguel, without looking up, replied very solemnly:—

"Gently, gently, Señor Merelo! gently, we are not all on a level!"

The editors roared with laughter.

Merelo, a little touched, exclaimed:—

"This Rivera is always making jokes.... Now, señor, ..." he went on to say, flinging his sombrero on the table.... "I have just this moment come from the tariff meeting at the Teatro del Circo...."

"Who spoke?... Who spoke?" was asked from various parts of the room.

"Well, Don Gabriel Rodríguez, Moret y Prendergast, Figuerola, and our chief; but the one who made the best speech was Don Felix Bona."

"Man alive! and what did he say?"

"Well, he began by saying that he ... the most insignificant of all that were there...."

"Señor Merelo! and is it possible that you did not protest against such a statement?" asked Miguel from his table.

Merelo looked at him without seeing the force of his remark; but finally feeling the hidden prick of sarcasm, he made up a disgusted face and went on, affecting to scorn it:—

" ... That he had come there to speak in the name of Commerce at least...."

"But, friend Merelo," interrupted the ex-curate, who greatly delighted in poking fun at the reporter, ... "you surely ought to have protested against his claim to humility."

Merelo could to a certain point put up with Rivera's raillery, since he recognized his superiority, but the priest's went against his nerves. And so, full of wrath, he put his hands together after the manner of priests during mass, and intoned:—

"Dominus vobiscum!"

A general laugh went round among the editors. The curé flushed up to his ears, and, greatly disgusted, tried to shoot the same jest again, only winging it with a sharper point; but the reporter, who was not remarkable for his ingenuity, kept replying:—

"Dominus vobiscum!" And his intonation was so comical and clerical that the newspaper men had to hold their sides with laughter.

The priest finally became so irritated that instead of jests he actually heaped insults on him. One of them was so outrageous and shameful that the latter felt called upon to raise his hand and give the priest a tremendous slap.

A scene of confusion and tumult arose in the office, lasting several moments. A number of men laid hold of Don Cayetano, who, with the exchange scissors in his hand, declared in an angry voice his intention of ripping Merelo open.

The latter, who did not care a rap for such a threat, roared to his companions to let him go: he would not put up with such blackguard language from any one. But his friends knew well that this was sheer rhetoric, and they clung to him all the more watchfully.

At last they succeeded in calming down the angry disputants, and the storm was followed by a calm that lasted for a quarter of an hour, during which all silently gave themselves up to their writing. At last Miguel looked up and asked:—

"See here, Señor Merelo, when do you expect to go to Rome?"

"To Rome?... What for?"

"To obtain pardon for the sin of having laid hands on a sacred person. You can't get absolution here."

A new shout of laughter ran through the office. The priest, in a fury, flung down his pen, took his hat, and left the room.

The editors of La Independencia lost much time in such skirmishes of wit, and our friend Rivera was almost always at the bottom of them.

Beside the men already mentioned, there were three or four of less distinction, and a throng of occasional contributors who came anxiously every night to bring the editor-in-chief their offering of articles, which, for the most part, were rejected.

Among all these, most attention was attracted by a young man, not as yet regularly attached to the staff, hideous, rickety, but well dressed, who was accustomed to write papers on literary criticism, always signed with the pseudonym Rosa de té, or Tea Rose. He was very severe on authors, and always felt it his duty to give them sound advice about the art which they practised. Time and again he assured them that this thing was not human, that was not like life, and the other was not in good form. He had a great deal to say about life, which, in his opinion, no author knew anything about, nor about women either. Only Rosa de té had a correct notion of the world and of woman's heart.

From the very beginning of his criticisms, he endeavored to put the author in the prisoner's box, while he himself mounted the judge's bench, wherefrom he would ask questions, administer blame, lay down the law, and make sarcastic and humorous flings.

"Where did Don Fulano[12] ever know of a young girl exclaiming, 'ah!' when she had the tooth-ache?... It is evident that Don Fulano has not often set foot in the salons of the aristocracy!... Life, Don Fulano, is not as you paint it; it is necessary to have lived within the charmed circle of society if one aspire to give a correct picture of it.... What we fail to find in Don Fulano's work is the plot.... And the plot, Don Fulano, the plot?... What kind of a character is the hero of his work? In one chapter he says that he has a tremendous appetite, and liked nothing better than to eat a box of Nantes sardines, and a few chapters further on he declares that he detests sardines! What kind of logic is that? Characters in art must be clearly defined, logical, not a patchwork. Don Fulano's protagonista here alone in the course of the work, according to our count, makes nineteen resolutions. Does Don Fulano think that nineteen resolutions are sufficient for a hero? Our opinion would be that it was not enough for even a subordinate character.... And so there is no way of preventing the character from being bungling, colorless, lacking in life and energy. Energy in the characters of novels and dramas I cannot weary of recommending to our authors.... Besides, you ought to endeavor, Don Fulano, to be more original. That remark made by Richard to the countess in the sixth chapter, where he says, ... 'Señora, I shall never again set foot in this house,' we have read before in Walter Scott."