The clock formed a group, composed of an effigy of time, under the figure of an old man; two nude young girls with arms interlaced, leaning upon the old man, and representing innocence and truth; and two other figures, wrapped in dark veils, symbolizing sin and mystery flying from time, who, with raised finger, appeared to threaten them. The effigy of time was well and expressively executed; and when the clear and sonorous voice of the hour, counting its dead sisters, was added to its expressive gesture, it seemed like the warning voice of an austere patriarch, and could not fail to affect him who, meditating upon the sense of the allegory, heard the measured echo of its strokes. On each side of the clock was a bronze candlestick, in the form of a negro standing upon a marble pedestal and adorned with brazen chains. The negro carried upon his head and in his hands baskets of flowers. In the centres of the flowers the candles were set. The ceiling was painted to represent light, floating clouds of gray and white, through which was seen a nymph of the air, apparently holding in her hands the tasselled cords of azure silk which sustained an alabaster lamp, destined to filter a light as mild and soft as that of the moon, a light extremely flattering to female beauty, and therefore adopted for select reunions. In the middle of the room, upon a mosaic stand, rested a great glass globe. In it swam fishes of those lovely colors which the water displays in emulation of the air that has its gorgeous birds, and the earth that parades its charming flowers. Here they lived, silent and gentle, unvexed by the circuit which bounded their action, like pretty idiots, seeing everything with their great eyes, and comprehending nothing. The globe was surmounted by a smaller one filled with flowers, of which there was also a profusion arranged in jars in the recesses of the windows. The windows were hung with lace-edged muslin curtains, like those now used, except that the muslin was Indian instead of English, and the lace thread, made by hand, instead of cotton woven. As it was summer time, only a dim light was allowed to penetrate the drawn blinds. The atmosphere of the apartment was perfumed with flowers and pastilles of Lima.
Upon the sofa reclined a woman of extraordinary beauty. One alabaster hand, hidden in a mass of auburn curls, supported her head upon the pillow of the sofa. A loose cambric dress, adorned with Flanders lace, robed her youthful and perfect form. Through the lace of her robe just peeped the point of a little foot encased in a silken stocking and white satin slipper. At that time no other shoe was used by ladies of distinction upon any occasion, and luxury reached even to the wearing of lace slippers lined with colored satin.
The apostles of the last foreign fashion, admirers of the buskin, regard with sovereign contempt this rich and elegant custom, which, in their eyes, is guilty of two mortal sins—that of being old-fashioned, and that of being Spanish. The lady's left hand was adorned with a splendid brilliant, and held a cambric handkerchief of Mexican embroidery, with which, from time to time, she dried a tear that slid slowly down her pearly cheek.
The reader thinks that he divines the cause of this solitary tear shed by a woman, young, beautiful, and surrounded by the evidences of a luxurious and enviable position. He has decided that it must be the token of wounded affection, and has guessed wrong. Respect for truth, even at the sacrifice of admiration for the heroine of our story, obliges us to confess that this tear was not of love, but of spite. Yes, that brilliant drop, falling from eyes as blue as the sky of evening, gliding between those long, dark lashes, and across those delicately glowing cheeks, was the evidence of spite.
But before we proceed it is necessary to explain the cause of the ill-humor of our heroine.
The young lady we have been describing was called Ismena, and was the only child of Don Iago O'Donnell, whose family, in common with many others, had emigrated from Ireland in the time of William of Orange. After the capitulation of Limerick, the troops, who belonged to the most noble families of Ireland, entered the service of France and Spain. Philip the First, as was to have been expected, welcomed them, and they formed, in 1709, the regiments of Ibernia and Ultonia, and, later, a third called the Irlanda. These troops were commanded by James Stuart, duke of Berwick, natural son of James the Second by Arabella Churchill, sister of the famous Duke of Marlborough. The Duke of Berwick gained the battle of Almansa and took Barcelona by assault, and the king rewarded his great services with the dukedoms of Liria and Jerica, and made him a grandee of Spain. This gallant general had two sons, the elder was naturalized in Spain and inherited the titles of Berwick, Liria, and Jerica, to which he afterward united, by his marriage, that of the noble house of Alba, which had descended to a female. The second son established himself in France, where his descendants still exist and bear the title of dukes of Fitz-James.
The above-mentioned regiments are represented in our days by the descendants of the loyal men who composed them, for, as we have been informed, there are now ninety Irish surnames in the Spanish army, names which, for their traditional loyalty and bravery, and their hereditary nobility, honor those who bear them.
Don Iago O'Donnell married a Spanish lady, and his daughter, Ismena, united in her person the beauty of both types. Her slight and graceful Andalusian form was clothed in the white rose-tinted skin of the daughters of misty Erin, to which the impassible coldness of its possessor gave a transparent pearliness and purity that nothing ever disturbed. Her large violet eyes beamed from beneath their dark lashes with the haughty and expressive glance of the south. Her carriage, though somewhat lofty, was free and natural. Naturalness is, indeed, but another name for that "Spanish grace" which has been so justly famed and eulogized. The irresistible attraction which is born of it, and which, in former times, women shed around them as the flame sheds light and the flowers perfume, they owed to the men, who used to abhor whatever was put on, affected, or studied; anathematizing it in a masculine way under the expressive epithet "monadas." [Footnote 50] In naturalness there is truth, and without truth there is no perfection; in naturalness there is grace, and without grace there is no real elegance. Taste at present appears to lie in the opposite extreme, as if the Florentines should dress theirVenus di Medicisas a show figure.
[Footnote 50: Monkey airs, splashness.]
The spirit of Ismena was far less richly endowed than her person. She possessed the cold, calm temperament of her father united to the haughty and domineering disposition she had inherited from her mother, and these qualities were exaggerated in her by the overbearing pride of the rich, beautiful, and spoiled child. Her mind was ever occupied in framing for herself a future as illustrious and brilliant as those which fortune-tellers prognosticate, and so she rejected all the lovers who offered her their affections, not one of them appearing likely to realize her dreams of greatness. But changes of fortune, like the transformations in magic comedies, come unlooked for and suddenly. Ismena's father lost his whole fortune within a few months; thanks to the treachery of the English, who seized so many of our ships and so much treasure before making a formal declaration of war with Spain.The fatal war which brought upon us the fatal family compact! Don Iago, who had just lost his wife, retired, ruined, to his country house in Chiclana. But this retreat did not long remain to him, for the house was advertised for sale by his creditors. The first person who presented himself as a purchaser was the General Count of Alcira. General Alcira had just returned from a long residence in America. Though he counted but fifty-five years, he appeared much older in consequence of the destructive action of that climate, which, with its hot miasms, impairs the European even as it corrodes iron. Notwithstanding his age, the general had become the heir of a young nephew, from whose title the rule of succession excluded females. On his return he went to Seville, his native city, where he was received by his sister-in-law (who looked upon him as one come to deprive her and her daughters of the riches and title they had possessed) with such bitterness and hostility that, although he was one of the most generous of men, he was justly indignant, and determined to leave Seville and establish himself in Cadiz, and he decided well.
At that period, Seville, the staid, religious matron, with rosary in hand, still more the buckram stays and the high powdered promontory—that, without the hair, must have been a weight in itself—and the hoops with which a lady could pass with ease only through a very wide door. At her austere entertainments she played Baciga or Ombre with her canons, her judges, her aldermen; and her cavaliers. She had no theatre, being withheld therefrom by a religious vow. She had for illumination only the pious lights that burned before her numerous pictures of saints. She had no pavements, noPaseo de Cristiana.
Of course there were no steamboats, those swift news-bearers which have since united in such close friendship these sister cities, the twin jewels of Andalusia, Cadiz, even more beautiful than she is now, wore her drapery in the low-necked Greek fashion which we still see in portraits of the beauties of those days. Cadiz, the seductive siren of naked bosom and silver scales, bathed in a sea of water, a sea of pleasure, and a sea of riches. She knew well how to unite the art and culture of foreign elegance with the dignity, ease, and spontaneity of Spanish grace, and, though the fair Andalusian had adopted certain things and forms that were foreign, she was none the less essentially Spanish in her delicate taste and circumspection, and her attachment to her own nationality.
For, strange to tell, in those days the pompous and high-sounding assumption of the "Spanish" which now fills the unholy sheets of the public press, and resounds through all discourses like hollow and incessant thunders, was unknown. It did not blare in lyric compositions, nor was it made the instrument of a party for the promotion of such or such ideas, nor was the bull Señorito [Footnote 51] chosen with enthusiasm as its symbol.
[Footnote 51: The famous bull that, in 1850, in Seville, fought and killed a large tiger.]
But that which was Spanish was had with simplicity, as the brave man has his intrepidity without proclaiming it, and as the fields have their flowers without parading them, Spanish patriotism was not upon the lips, but in the blood, in the being; it was the genius of the people; and it became them so well, was so refined and generous, so gentle and chivalric, so in harmony with the gracious southern type, that it came to be the admiration and delight of strangers. But we have apostatized from it, do not understand it, hold it in slight esteem, and, unlike the ass that covered himself with the rich golden skin of the lion, we, more stupid than he, instead of smoothing and cultivating that which nature has bestowed upon us, wrap ourselves in one that is inferior to it.Then the most candid gayety blended with an exquisite refinement pervaded social intercourse. There were neither clubs nor casinos, only reunions, in which gallantry was governed by the code contained in these ancient verses of Suarez:
"You are feared and worshiped;You to be obeyed:We saw humble worshipers,Of your frowns afraid.You the lovely conquerors;We your bondsman true:Ladies dear in vanquishers,We are slaves to you.You the praised and honored;Fairest under sun:We the lowly servitors,By your smiles undone."
The expression "to acquire a manner" was not then in use, but the practice of good manners was a matter of course and of instinct. The officers of the marine, brave and gentlemanly as they are now, but richer and more gallant, constituted the chief ornament of the society of Cadiz. They had formed themselves into a gay fraternity, at the head of which were the officers of the man-of-war San Francisco de Paula, and which, in playful allusion to the motto of the saint of this name—Caritas bonitas—styled itself "La devota Hermandad de las Caritas Bonitas" [Footnote 52] (The devoted Brotherhood of Beauty). In the theatre the national pieces of our own poets were played, and the farces of Don Ramon de la Cruz were enthusiastically applauded: at the brilliant fairs of Chiclana the inhabitants of Cadiz and Puerto congregated like flocks of gorgeous birds; and Cadiz retained, long years after, charms sufficient to inspire the song of Byron, that discriminating appreciator of the beautiful.
[Footnote 52: Caritas bonitas, Pretty faces.]
The General Count of Alcira desiring to buy a country house, that of Don Iago O'Donnell was proposed to him, and be went to look at it. The unfortunate proprietor threw it open to his inspection as soon as he presented himself. The count was charmed with all that he saw in the elegant mansion we have already described, and, above all, with the daughter of its master, whom they encountered writing in a retired cabinet that received light and fragrance from the garden. She was dressed in deep mourning, and weeping bitterly while she answered letters from two of her friends who had just married—one an English lord, and the other a nobleman of Madrid. How bitterly those letters caused Ismena to feel the contrast between the lot of her friends and that which compelled her, single and poor, to abandon even this house, the only thing that remained to her of the brilliant past.
Her tears moved and interested the good general to such an extent that, having bought the house, he begged the occupant to remain in it and admit him, the buyer, as a member of his family and the husband of his daughter. It is hardly necessary to add that Don Iago received this proposition as a message of felicity, and that his daughter hailed it as a means of escaping lower depths of the abyss into which fortune had hurled her. To paint the rage of the aunt's sister-in-law when she heard of the projected alliance would be a difficult task. She spread calumnies upon Ismena, ridiculed the marriage, and spit out her venom in bitter sarcasms, prophesying that the union of the ambitious beggar with the worn-out valetudinarian would remain without issue; in short, that Providence would mock their calculations, and cause the title, for lack of a male inheritor, to return to her own family. The excessive pride of Ismena, more than ever susceptible since her misfortune, was stung beyond endurance by those gibes and revilings. And she was still more chagrined when, after having been married two years without giving birth to a child, she seemed to see the prophecies of her enemy realized. It appeared that God would deny the blessing of children to the wife who desired them not from the holy instinct of maternal love, but to satisfy a base pride and a contemptible covetousness; not for the blessed glory of seeing herself surrounded by her offspring, but from the haughty and miserable desire of humiliating a rival—of triumphing over an enemy.It is at this time and under the influence of these feelings that we have introduced Ismena, Countess of Alcira, bathed in tears. And for this we say that these drops, so cold and bitter, were not tokens of wounded love, but of rage and spite.
The general had learned that the house in Chiclana was for sale from his secretary, who was the son of Don Iago's housekeeper. A few words will explain this.
The general, when young, had for many years an orderly whom he loved well. The Spanish orderly is the model domestic, the ideal servant. He is wanting in nothing, has always more than enough, and does whatever is asked of him unquestioningly and with pleasure. If he were bidden, he would, like St. Theresa, plant rotten onions through the same spirit of blind obedience. He has the heart of a child, the patience of a saint, and the attachment of that type of devoted affection, the dog. Like him he loves and cares for all that belongs to his master, and, most of all, for his children, if he has any. And to such a degree does he carry this devotion, that one of our celebrated generals has said that "an orderly makes the very best of dry nurses." He has no will of his own, does not know what laziness is, is humble and brave, grateful and obliging. And in the household, where his coming may have occasioned the natural irritation and repulsion caused by whatever invades the domestic circle, his departure is always sincerely felt.
Before he left Spain the general, then a captain, had lived for a long time with his orderly in the greatest friendship, without the latter having lost the least grain of his respect for his chief. When the general went to America, his orderly, to the great grief of both, left him, and returned to his native town of Chiclana to marry the bride who, with a constancy not unusual in Spain, had waited for him fifteen years. A few years later the orderly died leaving one child, a son, to the care of his disconsolate widow. The poor woman, accompanied by a little niece she had adopted, took service with Don Iago O'Donnell. As for the boy, who was godson to the general, the latter sent for him, had him educated under his own care, and afterward made him his secretary. In this capacity he brought him back to Spain. Lázaro—so he was named—was one of those beings who are sealed by nature with the stamp of nobility, and who, aided by circumstances, become unconscious heroes by simply following their natural instincts.
Having learned from his mother that the house in which she lived was for sale, he had informed the general, who bought it, and with it his young and beautiful wife.
A beautiful woman she was; as fair and delicate as an alabaster nymph; as cold, also, and as void of feeling; a being who had never loved anything but herself; insipid and without sweetness; a jessamine flower that had never felt the rays of the sun.
Later in the afternoon, an attendant called Nora entered the room in which we found Ismena, to open the windows. Nora had been Ismena's nurse, and had never left her. She was a proud and cunning woman, and had done much to develop the perverse dispositions of the girl.
"Always weeping," she said with a gesture of impatience at the sight of Ismena's tears. "You will lose your good looks, and when your husband dies, all you have beside will be gone, youth, consideration, and wealth. You will then have no recourse but to turn pious and spend your days dressing up the holy images."
"I know too well that I shall lose everything, that is why I weep," replied Ismena.
"And who says that your lot may not be different?" answered Nora. "It is not your sister-in-law that has the disposition of your future; you yourself can do more to make your fortune than she to unmake it. Hope is the last thing lost, but then one must not cross one's arms while they can be of use."
"Idle talk," returned Ismena. "You know that my hopes are as vain as my marriage is sterile."
"It will amount to the same thing," said Nora, "whether you give birth to a son or adopt one."
The lady fixed her great blue eyes upon the woman as she exclaimed, "The count would never consent!"
"He need not know it," replied Nora.
"A fraud, a crime, a robbery! Are you beside yourself?"
"All that sounds very lofty, yet in reality you will only be doing some poor wretch an act of charity. Your nieces are well married; your sister-in-law has a rich jointure, and does not need the count's money. If they desire to have it, it is through ambition, and that you may not enjoy it."
"Never! never!" said Ismena. "Better to lose rank and position than become the slave of a secret which may bring us to dishonor. Never!" she repeated, shaking her head as if she wished to shake the fatal thought from her mind.
"I only shall know the secret, and I alone will be responsible. So it will be more secure in my breast than in your own."
"You will have to employ another person."
"Yes, but without confiding in him. I have already found the person. Your husband is about to embark for Havana. When he returns, be will find a son here."
"Nora, Nora! there is no wickedness of which you are not capable!"
"I am capable of anything that may result in benefit to you."
"But to deceive a man like the count would be the most unpardonable of crimes!"
"Ismena, I have often heard you sing:
'Deceit, a faithful friend art thou;'Tis truth that is our bane.Pain without sickness she doth give;Thou, sickness without pain.'
But to-day you appear to be more high flown than the poets themselves."
"But the text alludes to love quarrels."
"It is very applicable to everything else in life. As if you had never known the case I have suggested to be put into practice; and is it not a thousand times worse when combined with infidelity?"
At this moment the count entered. "Ismena, my child," he said, approaching his wife, "I have come to take you out, your friends are already waiting for you in the Cañada. How is it that these lovely spring afternoons do not inspire you with a desire to go out and enjoy the free, balmy air?"
"I dislike to walk, and people worry me," answered Ismena, who had lost color at sight of her husband.
"You look pale, my child," replied the count with tenderness, "and for some time past you have seemed low-spirited. Are you not well?"
"There is nothing the matter with me," answered Ismena.
"At most," said Nora, "your sickness is not one that requires the attention of a doctor." And she glanced at the count with a meaning smile.
Irritation and shame sent the hot blood mounting to Ismena's face.
"Nora," she exclaimed, "are you crazy? Be silent!"
"I will be silent, sir count, for, as the saying is, 'the more silent the coming the more welcome the comer.'"
In the general's benevolent face glowed the light of a pure paternal hope.
"Is this certain?" he said, looking tenderly at his wife.
"Sir," said Nora, "have you not noticed for some time past her want of appetite and her general languor without apparent cause?Shedoes not believe it, and will not be convinced, but I who have more experience am sure."
"Nora, it is false!" exclaimed Ismena, appalled.
"Time will show," replied Nora, with perfect composure.
"Time!" repeated Ismena indignantly.
At this moment they were interrupted by six deep measured strokes of the clock.
"That fixes the time for the event," said Nora, with an affected laugh; "six months from now, it says."
Six months after these scenes the general, in an affectionate letter to his wife, announced his return from Havana, whither he had been upon important business. Ismena went to Cadiz to meet him, accompanied by a nurse who carried in her arms the supposed heir.
This child had been brought from the Iocluso, [Footnote 53] and the secret of the deception was known only to Ismena, to Nora, and to Lázaro; the latter being the person selected by Nora to obtain the infant from the asylum. How she had been able to persuade the good young man to bend himself to her wicked plot can be understood only when it is known that he believed it to have been sanctioned and arranged by his master. Lázaro doubted until Nora, who had foreseen his opposition, and was prepared to meet it, showed him the following passages in the last letter the general had written to his wife:
[Footnote 53: Establishment for the reception of abandoned infants.]
"The sails which are to bear me from you, and, with you, from all the sweetness of my life, are already spread. Adieu, therefore: I hope on my return to find you with a child in your arms, which will render our happiness complete.
"As I have told you before, you may, in the affair of which we know, and in all other's, trust Lázaro, in whom I place the most implicit confidence."
The letter ended with some tender expressions and the signature of the general.
Nora, quick to perceive the use she could make of the above passages in proving to Lázaro that the "affair of which we know," which was in reality a matter relating to money, was the same she had in hand, had kept the letter.
Lázaro, therefore, with the deepest sorrow, but the most entire devotion to his benefactor, brought the innocent little one; which thus passed from the bosom of an abandoned woman into the hands of a traitoress.
A little before the time at which we take up the thread of our story the babe had been reclaimed, and the administrator of the asylum had demanded it of Lázaro. Nora could find no means of escape from the difficulty this demand occasioned them but to send Lázaro out of the country. Ismena also vehemently urged his departure, and the devoted victim consented to go, knowing that his absence, without apparent cause and without explanation, would break the heart of his mother and of his young cousin, to whom he was soon to have been married.
He embarked secretly in a small coasting vessel bound for Gibraltar, which, being overtaken by a tempest off the perilous coast of Conil, was capsized, and all on board were lost.
This catastrophe, of which she believed herself to be the cause, overcame Ismena, and her suffering was augmented by a threatening presentiment that would allow her to fix her thoughts neither upon the past nor future without shuddering. The one reproached and the other appalled her.
Alas for the wretch that between these two phantoms drags out a miserable existence! Happy is he who, by keeping his conscience pure, preserves, amid misfortunes and sorrows, his peace of soul, the supreme good which God has promised man in this exiled state.
For many years the beautiful house at Chiclana remained unoccupied, the countess obstinately refusing to go there to enjoy the spring. Alas! for her there was neither spring nor pleasure, for, through divine justice, the results of her crime, a crime committed in cold blood and without a single excuse, weighed heavily upon her, as if the Most High had wished, by the force of circumstances, to impress upon her hard and daring spirit that which the sentiments of humanity had failed to communicate.
And these circumstances were indeed terrible, for she had borne the count, successively, two sons, whose birth filled the heart of their mother with consternation. To increase her chagrin, she saw the oldest of the three boys was growing up beautiful, brave, and sincere, occupying the first place in her husband's heart. For not only did Ramon—so the boy was called—sympathize with the general, but the equitable old man, seeing the hostility with which the countess regarded him, redoubled his manifestations of interest and affection toward the victim of her ill temper, and thus, by the force of a terrible retribution, God had brought remorse to that hard heart, and remorse had driven her from the house in which everything reminded her of her crime.
Remorse! Thou that bindest the temples with a crown of thorns, and the heart with a girdle of iron prongs; thou that makest the sleep so light and the vigil so heavy; thou that interposest thyself to cloud the clear glance that comes from the soul to the eyes, and to embitter the pure smile that rises from the heart to the lips; thou so silent in face of the seductive fault, so loud in thy denunciations when it is past, and there is no recalling it. Cruel and inexorable remorse! by whom art thou sent? Is it by the spirit of evil, that he may rejoice in his work and drive guilty man to despair; or by God, to warn him, in order that he may yet expiate his faults? For through thee two ways are opened to the soul—the way of death and the way of repentance. Weak wills and lukewarm spirits fluctuate between the two, shrinking alike from the furnace which would purify them, and the bottomless sea of anguish in whose bitter abysses the impenitent soul must writhe eternally.
These agonies to which Ismena was a prey, this remorse, this undying worm, had gnawed at her heart and life like an incurable cancer, and her tortures augmented in proportion as she felt her end approaching. In a continual struggle with conscience, which cannot be compounded with by human reasons or worldly purposes, because it is in itself a reason from God; every day more undecided whether to enter upon the course it indicated or to follow the path into which her pride had led her, Ismena, tearful alike of the fiery furnace and of the dreadful abyss, was approaching death as a criminal approaches the scaffold, wishing at the same time to lengthen the distance and to shorten it. When her end seemed near, the doctors insisted, as a last recourse, that she should try the air of the country, and the house at Chiclana was prepared for the reception of its proprietors. The most exquisite neatness was restored throughout. The awning once more covered the court, the birds twittered in their gilded cages, and the plants throve and bloomed, though Maria no longer sang as she watered them.
Announced by the sound of its bells, the carriage slowly approached and stopped at the door. But she who descended from it, and, supported by the general and a physician, dragged herself wearily through the marble portal like a corpse entering its sumptuous mausoleum, is only the wasted shadow of the once brilliant Ismena.At twenty-eight she had lost all the brightness of youth, her splendid eyes were dimmed and cast down, her golden locks had become gray, and her white and faded skin was like a shroud that covers a skeleton. A few years had sufficed to produce this change; for, instead of the gentle and reluctant hand of time, it had been wrought by the destructive talon of suffering. The countess was borne to a sofa, upon which she lay for a long while so prostrated that she appeared unconscious of all that surrounded her. But when left alone with Nora, she became feverish and agitated, and called for Maria. Nora, foreseeing the violent shock the sight of this poor old woman, the unfortunate victim of her fatality, must produce, would have put her off; but the countess repeated the demand with so much exasperation that it was necessary to obey. When Maria came in, Ismena extended her arms, and, embracing her convulsively, laid her burning head upon the bosom of the faithful friend who had witnessed her birth. But Maria was serene, for in that bosom beat a pure heart. Her eyes had lost their former expression or cheerful happiness, but still shone with the light of inward peace.
"Maria," exclaimed Ismena at last, "how have you been able to bear your misfortune?"
"With the resignation which God gives when he is asked for it, my lady," replied the good woman.
"O blessed sorrows with which it is not incompatible!" was the agonized cry of Ismena's heart.
"I told you one day, my lady, that my son filled me with pride; and God has permitted that this son, my boast and my glory, should be defamed by all the appearances of a crime."
"Appearances!" said Nora. "Who says that?"
"Every one," answered Maria with gentle firmness, and, after a moments' pause, she continued with the same serenity: "A profound mystery hides from my eyes, as from those of all others, the circumstances of his flight; but, if anyone has foully caused it, may God forgive him, as I do! He and I know that my son was not—could not be—a criminal; this is enough for me; I will be silent and submit."
"And your motherly conviction does not deceive you!" exclaimed Ismena, falling back upon the pillows of the sofa.
They carried her to her couch, attributing her exhaustion to the excitement and fatigue of the journey.
Her agitation having been gradually calmed by a narcotic, she was once more left in the care of the nurse.
The general, with delicate fore-thought, had caused the flow of the fountain to be stopped, in order that the uncertain repose of his wile might not be disturbed by the murmur of its water. But the clock in the parlor struck twelve—twelve warning notes from the lips of time. As if the old man had counted with inflexible memory the twelve years she had survived her crime; the twelve years passed in luxury and surrounded by an areola of respect and public consideration, since, in sacrificing conscience to pride, she had also sacrificed the life and fair fame of a noble and innocent man.
Ismena awoke with a start and sat upright in her bed, her perplexed glances wandering in all directions, and a wild fever burning in her veins. A devouring inquietude possessed her; the weight upon her breast suffocated her. She sprang from the couch and rushed to the window; for, like Margret in the "Faust" of Goethe, she was suffocating for air. Moonlight and silence reposed without in a tranquil embrace. So profound was the calm that it weighed upon the burdened soul of Ismena like the still but oppressive atmosphere which precedes the tempest.
She leaned her burning forehead against the window bars. The court lay black beneath—black but gilded; an emblem of her life. Then from a distance there came to her ears two voices, blended, like faith and hope, in prayer. They were the voices of Maria and Piedad reciting the rosary. There was something deeply solemn in the sweet monotony with which the words, without passion, without variation, without terrestrial modulations, rose to heaven, as the smoke rises from the incense of the altar, gently, without color, without impetuosity, as if drawn upward by celestial attraction. Something very impressive in those words, thousands of times repeated because thousands of times felt, in those petitions which are a verbal tradition from Jesus Christ and his apostles; words so perfect and complete in themselves, that all the progress and all the enlightenment of the human mind have vainly endeavored to improve them.
At what wretched variance was Ismena's soul with the grave and tranquil spirit of those words! She longed to unite in them, but could not!
"O my God!" she cried, withdrawing from the window, "I cannot pray."
But presently, drawn by the sacred and irresistible attraction, she returned. She heard Maria pronounce these words: "For the repose of the soul of my son Lázaro." And then the prayer of the two pious women continued without other departure from the accustomed words.
"Ah! holy God!" exclaimed Ismena, wringing her hands, "my voice is not worthy to unite with these pure tones which rise to thee unsoiled by guilt and unchecked by remorse!" She prostrated herself with her face to the floor, and remained until the last "amen" had mounted to heaven; then, as she rose, shrinking from herself as from a spectre, her eyes fell upon Nora, who had fallen asleep in a chair. She approached, and, clutching her with that right hand, once so beautiful, but now like the claw of a bird of prey, "You asleep!" she cried. "Iniquity asleep while innocence watches and prays! Wake up, for your repose is more horrible than your crime! You see her whom you rocked in her peaceful cradle entering—led by your infamous suggestions—into her coffin, and you sleep while she is agonizing! What do you see in the past? An unpunished crime; and you sleep! What do you see in the present? A usurpation, a robbery, a crime committed and continued from day to day in cold blood; and you sleep! What do you behold in the future? The divine and universal justice of God; so sweet to the upright, so terrible to the criminal; and you sleep! But this justice will yet cause to fall upon your head some of the weight, which oppresses mine! Bear, then, in addition to God's condemnation, the curse of her you corrupted! For I am the most guilty of women, and, Nora, Nora, but for you I should never have been what I am!"
Alarmed by Nora's cries, all the household hurried to the room to find the countess in a frightful and convulsed state bordering upon madness. Nora, too, was confused and incoherent, but this was attributed to her grief for the approaching death of her mistress.
During the following day the sick woman remained in a state of terrible agitation, and at night the doctors were obliged again to administer a powerful narcotic, which caused her to fall into a deep sleep.
The count was occupied in arranging some papers that were scattered upon an antique ebony escritoire, ornamented in its various compartments with exquisite carved work and paintings. In it Ismena kept her papers. It had been opened that afternoon by her order to take out the writing materials she had demanded.
Ismena had learned English from her father, to whom that tongue was perfectly familiar, and, as the husband replaced the papers, he fixed his eyes sadly upon a translation she had begun, grieved to think that she would never finish it. It was from "Hamlet," and his glance rested upon the last lines she had written—the monologue of King Claudius in the third act. The writing was indistinct, as if traced by a trembling hand. The translation, in which one familiar with the original would have noted some voluntary omissions, ran as follows:
"My crime is already rank; it calls to heaven. Upon it weighs the first curse that entered the world—that of the fratricide! My desire and my will impel me to pray, and yet I cannot, for the weight of my crime is greater than the force of my intention, and, like a man in whom two powers contend, I vacillate between ceding to the pressure of my guilt or giving myself up to my good intentions. But for what is mercy, if not to descend upon the brow of the sinner? And has not prayer the double virtue of preventing a fall and of lifting the fallen by obtaining his pardon? Then will I lift my eyes to heaven. But what form of prayer is appropriate to my crime? Can I ask and hope for forgiveness? Is there water enough in the gentle clouds to wash the blood from the hand of the fratricide? Is there remission for him who continues in the enjoyment of the benefits of his sin—his queen, his crown, his vain-glory? Ah! no, there cannot be! The gilded hand of iniquity may sink justice in the corrupted currents of the world, and the very price of guilt may buy the law of man. But there, on high, it is not so: there artifice obtains nothing and falsehood is of no avail: there, in the kingdom of truth, the deed will stand naked, and the sinner will have to be his own accuser. What, then, remains to us? To try the virtue or repentance? Ah! yes, it can do all. But, alas! if the sinner would repent and cannot? O wretched state! O bosom black as death! O soul, that in trying to free thyself entangled thyself the more in the meshes of thy sin!—angels, hasten to its aid!—melt, heart of steel!—inflexible knees, be bent! Alas! the words have flown, but wings are wanting to the heart; and the words that reach heaven without the heart find no entrance there!"
This imperfect translation, though it gave but a faint idea of the beautiful and elevated poetry of the writer, filled the general with admiration, for his was a mind accessible to all things beautiful and good. But when he glanced at his wife, who lay so pale upon her white bed, like a withered lily upon the snow, he reflected in all simplicity: "Why seek these pictures of crime and passion? Why should the dove imitate the boding cry of the owl? Why should the gentle lamb try to repeat the roar of the wounded and bloody lion?"
Having put the papers in their place, he seated himself at the foot of his wife's bed, and lifted his heart to God in a fervent petition for the life of her he loved.
The alcove in which Ismena lay opened into the parlor, and at this moment, with the pertinacity of a recollection always repulsed yet for ever returning, the clock struck eleven. Its metallic strokes, vibrating and pausing in the silence, suggested the idea of justice knocking at a closed door—justice, against whom there is no door that can remain for ever closed!
These clear sounds startled Ismena, and she awoke with a smothered moan.
The general, alarmed by her wild looks and confused words, approached, and, encircling her with his arms, said:
"Compose yourself, Ismena, for you are better; the healthy sleep you have had for several hours is restoring your strength."
"Have I been asleep?" she murmured. "Asleep on the brink of my sepulchre as if it offered me rest! Asleep when so little time remains to arrange my accounts in this world! Sit down, sir, for so I will address you, and not as my husband. I am not worthy to be your wife. I do not wish to talk to you as to a companion, but as a judge whose clemency I implore."
The general, taking no notice of these strange words, which he attributed to delirium, endeavored to tranquillize his wife, telling her to put off the explanations she wished to make until she should be stronger; but Ismena persisted in being heard, and continued:
"I am about to die, and I leave all the good things of this world without sorrow; all except one, that I still desire and would fain carry with me to the grave. You, who have been to me father, husband, and benefactor, do not deny what none but you can give! For that which I implore, sir, is your forgiveness."
The general, as he listened, became more and more confirmed in the belief that his wife was raving, and again begged her not to agitate herself as she was doing. But Ismena only implored him the more earnestly to listen without interrupting her.
"If a woman," she said, "who has expiated a crime by all that remorse can inflict of torture and ruin; by the loss of health, of peace, and of life; if this wretch, in her dying agony and despair, can inspire the least compassion, oh! you who have been the most generous of men, you who have strewn my life with flowers, have one branch of olive for the hour of my death! Hear, without repulsing me, without deserting me in my last moments, without making my last agony more intolerable by your curse, a confession which will prove to you that my heart is not entirely perverted, since I have the courage to make it."
A cold sweat stood upon the forehead of the dying woman; her stiffening fingers worked convulsively; the words issued from her lips more interruptedly and fainter, like the last drops of blood from a mortal wound. Nevertheless, making one last heroic effort, she went on.
"I know that I am about to stab you to the heart, but by this means only can I die at peace with God. Here," she continued, drawing a sealed paper from under her pillow, "is a declaration made by me, for the purpose of preventing a dishonest usurpation, and signed by two reverend witnesses, which will prove to you that—Ramon—is not our son!" On hearing these words, the general sprang from his chair, but, overwhelmed with grief and astonishment, sank back again, exclaiming:
"Ramon! Ramon not my son! Whose, then, is he?"
"Only God knows, for his wretched parents abandoned him; he is a foundling."
"But with what motive?" The general paused a moment and then continued with indignation: "I see the motive!—ambition!—pride! Oh! what iniquity!"
"Have pity on my misery!" implored Ismena, wringing her hands.
"You are a base woman!" cried the general, with all the indignation of probity against dishonesty, and all the aversion of virtue to the thought of a crime.
Ismena had never before heard the paternal voice of her husband assume the firm and terrible tone with which he now cast her treachery in her face, and she sank under it as if struck by lightning. His profound sorrow and stern condemnation seemed to open an abyss between him and her, and render it impossible for the lips which had pronounced that severe sentence ever to utter the pardon she craved more than life. Pardon! most beautiful and perfect fruit of love, of which the value is so great that God's Son gave his blood to buy it, and which, therefore, his Father grants for a single tear, so great is his mercy! Pardon, divine gift, that pride neither asks nor yields, but that humility both implores and concedes. Pardon, that, like an efficacious intercession, lifts the sinner to heaven.
Had she perchance waited too long to ask it? For one moment the torrent of angry blood had swept generosity and sacred mercy from the heart of him she had injured; and must she die in that moment?She sprang from the bed, and, falling upon her knees, laid her clenched hands against his breast, shrieking in a voice intercepted by the death-rattle:
"Pardon!"
Her last thought, her last feeling, her last breath dissolved in that last word. It reached the heart of her husband. Bending forward, he caught her in his arms, and lifted—a corpse.
And from the clock, as if time had waited for this moment to toll a voluntary and pious passing bell, there issued twelve slow and measured strokes.
A secret fault, drawing with it its terrible consequences, interlaced one with another, like a nest of venomous serpents, had already cost the one who committed it her happiness and life, and the one who conceived it her reason; for Nora, shocked into insanity by the fearful curse and death of her mistress, was the inmate of a madhouse. But its hideous trail continued still, entangling and envenoming the hitherto tranquil life of the General Count of Alcira. The good old man never ceased to reproach himself for the cruel epithet indignation had forced from his lips; the only expression he had ever uttered that could wound the poor worn heart that implored but one pious word to permit it to cease its beating in peace. Instead of that word, he had cast the cruel taunt under which it had burst in despair. He wept burning tears for not having conceded the pardon which could have been but one instant wanting to his generous soul. And that instant had been her last. His forgiveness might have soothed her anguish, prolonged her life, and sweetened her death; and he had refused it. This remembrance became in its turn a remorse, and poisoned his existence.
The reaction he experienced, with his natural goodness of heart, had the effect to render almost excusable in his eyes a fault counterbalanced by so many shining qualities, and blotted out by such unparalleled remorse and by mortal sufferings; for death, when it takes its prey, has the sweet prerogative of carrying with it under the earth the evil it has done, leaving the good behind for an epitaph.
The general atoned for that one moment in which he had forgotten to be a Christian by multiplied works of charity, offered in sacrifice to obtain from heaven the pardon earth had denied the penitent, and by incessant offerings for the repose of her soul. Offerings which the Eternal would receive; for the Creator has not left man a foundling. He has acknowledged him as a son, has given him precepts, and promised him, from the cross, a glorious inheritance.
Every morning a mass was offered for the rest of her whose image dwelt in the heart of the old man who knelt at the foot of the altar, uniting his fervent petitions with those of the priest that was sacrificing.
The general's life was still more embittered by the painful secret which oppressed and involved him and his sons with him, as the serpent in the group of the Laocoon makes both father and sons his prey. He could not break the arcanum without sacrificing the one to whom his kind heart clung with tender affection, without defaming the sacred ashes of the mother of his children. He, therefore, respecting the youth and innocence of his boys, kept the fatal secret, which, in truth, he had not the courage to reveal. The time, he argued within himself, when the veil must be withdrawn from such a sad and cruel reality will come soon enough. Sometimes he resolved to let it be buried with him. But what right had he, a man of such strict principles, to deprive his heirs of their inheritance in favor of a stranger? Could he make an alien the head of his noble house?Allow a foundling to usurp the rights of its lawful representatives? Worldly fathers would rather listen to the opinion of the world than to the voice of conscience, placing social considerations above its decisions, persuading it that they are compelled thereto by circumstances. But let no one compound with conscience, lest she cease to be conscience; lest she become a conniver instead of a sentinel, a weather-cock instead of a foundation; lest she lose the respect and confidence she is bound to inspire. For she should give her decisions as the sun sends forth his rays, with nothing to hinder them or turn them from their direction.
The years sped onward. The count grew infirm and saw his end approaching. Wishing to pass the last days of his life in the society of his children, and feeling that he ought to reveal the secret he had kept so long, he sent for them to join him in Chiclana, where he wished to die, in order to be buried beside his wife, thereby giving her, even after he was dead, a last public testimony of affection and respect.
The word enlightenment had not then been brought into use, nor had the colleges been modernized. Yet this did not prevent the three brothers from being such finished and accomplished gentlemen that the sight of them filled their father's heart with pleasure and pride.
Ramon, the eldest, came from the school of artillery, where he had been the companion of Daoiz and Velarde. The second came from the academy of marine guards, the academy which produced the heroes of Trafalgar, those Titans who contended with a powerful adversary, with the treachery of an ally, and with the unchained fury of the elements, and who were crushed, not vanquished, by the three united. The youngest arrived from the university of Seville, in which, at that time, or a little before, the Listas, Reinosas, Blaneos, Carvajales, Arjonos, Roldanes, and the worthy, wise, and exemplary Maestre, were students. For though Spain has lacked railroads, hotels, and refined and sensual means of entertainment, she has never, in any epoch, lacked wise men and heroes.
The general looked at the three in turn with an indefinable expression of tenderness; but when his glance fell upon Ramon, he lowered his eyes to hide the tears that filled them.
His vivid pleasure at the sight of his children, mingled with the anguish of knowing that over the head of the unconscious Ramon the sword of Damocles was suspended, agitated the old man so much that he passed the night in feverish wakefulness, and his state on the following morning was such that his doctors advised him to make his last preparations. The grief of his children, by whom he was adored, was heart-rending. But the general was so well prepared to leave the world and appear before the bar of God, that his last dispositions, though solemn, were short and serene.
Toward night, feeling himself grow weaker every moment, he made arrangements to be left alone with his sons, who drew near his bed, repressing their tears in order not to afflict him.
He looked long at them, and then said: "My children, I am about to tell you a cruel secret, which will make one of you wretched. It has lain for many years buried deep in my soul; but I am dying, and can be its repository no longer. O my God! my heart gives the lie to my lips; and, nevertheless, one of you is not my son, and the mother at whose grave you go to pray never bore you."
The grieved astonishment which manifested itself in the countenances of the three youths, left them pale, speechless, and overwhelmed.
"You know well," continued the father, after a pause, "that my interest and tenderness, in and toward you all have been the same, and that it cannot be known, even to yourselves, which of you has no right to bear my name. And you, my children, which one of you is it that does not feel for me the affection of a son?"
The simultaneous and eloquent reply of the three was to throw themselves, suffocated by their sobs, into the arms of the good old man.