CHAPTER VII.

WILL SHE DIE.

María awoke to find herself in a large, bare room. Her husband stood in front of her, alive and tangible. She did not recognize the place, but she felt that she was in safe hands.

“Whose house is this?” she asked.

“Mine.... Be calm. I am here.--Do you not see me?”

María’s eyes wandered round the walls, and up to the ceiling.

“What a dismal place!” she murmured. “And I--did I come here?”

Then she was silent, trying to collect her confused memories.

The morning after the event which might well be called a catastrophe, Leon had discussed with the Marquis de Fúcar and Moreno Rubio the best means of moving María back to Madrid. Don Pedro thought the scheme dangerous, and the physician had firmly opposed it, saying that, in the state in which she was, the journey, no matter how carefully managed, might result in a rapid and fatal collapse. Leon was excessively annoyed and disappointed; nay, would certainly have carried out his purpose, if the doctor had not threatened to withdraw, and give up all further responsibility. As it was impossible to remove her from Suertebella, though it was the last spot on earth where she ought, or could wish to be, he thought that the best plan would be to dismantle the room; and by the permission of his generous host he removed all the pictures, ornaments, porcelain and bric-a-brac. The room itself was very unpretending and was only hung with a common paper, so that it now looked bare enough.

“Yes, you came here,” replied her husband, stroking her hair. “You have been ill; but you are better now; it will be nothing serious.”

“Ah yes!” said María, struck with a sudden pang of remembrance. “It was my jealousy, your infidelity that brought me here.--But is this the house?”

“This is my bedroom.”

“Those walls--that high ceiling.--Why did you not take me home at once?”

“We will go when you have rested a little.”

“What has been the matter?”

“A little over-fatigue; it will lead to nothing serious.”

“I remember--you behaved disgracefully to me. What did I say to you? Did I say I forgave you? Or did I only dream it?”

“Yes--you forgave me,” said Leon to soothe her.

“You promised you would love no one but me. You swore that you loved me, and to make me believe it you gave me proofs.... Is it so or did I dream it?”

“It is quite true.”

“Ah! and you told me you had made up your mind to renounce your errors, and to believe all that I believe. That was not a dream?”

“No, a reality.--You must compose yourself.”

“And then we made it up--was that it?”

“Just so.”

“And loved each other as we used when we were first married.”

“Yes--just so.”

“And you said I had been deceived as to your connection with....”

María turned her head and fixed her eyes on her husband’s face.

“We will not discuss the past,” he said kindly. “We must make an effort to restore you to health, and you must help us, María.”

“Help you, what to do?”

“To save you, María.”

“Aye indeed! I must try to save myself! My God! I have sinned....” She was overcome with grief.

“I am speaking of your life--of your bodily health which is in danger.”

“Oh! I do not care for the health of my body, but for that of my soul which is in peril.... A little while ago, I do not exactly know how long, I thought I was dead. Now I am alive; but I think I shall die soon ... and I am in mortal sin.”

“You dreamt it, my child, it was a dream. Be calm, do not frighten yourself.”

“In mortal sin,” repeated María putting her hands to her head. “Tell me did I dream then that you told me...?”

“I?”

“That you did not love me?”

“What could it be, but a dream?”

María threw her arms round her husband’s neck and gently drew his face down to her own.

“Say it again that I may get rid of the miserable impression of that horrible dream.” They exchanged a few words in a low voice.

“Then give me a proof of your affection,” said María. “As we are a long way from Madrid, and as I cannot go out for some days, send a message for me to Padre Paoletti. I want to talk to him.”

“I will fetch him myself.”

“You yourself?”

“Why not? I don’t mind taking any trouble to gratify you.”

In the course of the day the doctor came. Leon had thought it prudent to confide to him some of his secrets, for, as María’s attack had been brought on by mental excitement, it was necessary that the physician should be aware of the delicate details. Moreno Rubio and Leon Roch were close friends; their intimacy was founded on sympathies of character, and on common grounds of scientific views and interests. That morning, when Leon had disclosed to his friend such facts as were indispensable to a sure diagnosis, they had a conversation of which some important fragments may be recorded.

“So that in short you do not care for your wife--neither more nor less,” said Rubio, who liked to state facts as plainly as possible.

“I have always had a horror of falsehood,” replied Leon. “And I am bound to confess that María does not inspire me with any affectionate emotion. I have two feelings when I think of her: one is the deepest pity; the other is a certain amount of respect.”

“Precisely; but those feelings are not enough to make a good husband; however, there are others in your soul which might make you--and assuredly do make you a kind-hearted man. Tell me, do you wish your wife to live?”

Leon started like a man who has been struck.

“Such a question is an insult. The very disquietude of my conscience impels me to desire that María should not die.”

“Very good. Then if you wish that María should live,” said Moreno, laying his hand on his friends’ shoulder, “the first indispensable thing is to soothe the irritation produced by her jealousy--which, unfortunately, is but too well-founded; her mind has received a terrible shock, and it must be allowed to recover its balance. Every life has, as it were a rhythm, a beat, of its own, to which it goes on regularly and smoothly. A sudden and complete disturbance of the measure may result in the gravest consequences, even in death. We have here an instance in point. We must therefore lay ourselves out to restore as quickly, and as effectually as possible, the steady measure that has been disturbed; then we can deal with the frightful blow to the nervous system which has affected, and may be fatal to the brain. All these jealousies must be eliminated as quickly as possible, so that her feelings not being excited, the whole machine may have a chance of recovering its tone and balance. All the scenes which gave rise to her attack must by degrees be effaced from her memory. If she lives there will be time enough to let her know the truth. She must be saved from any fresh outbreaks of anger or despair by being persuaded that nothing has occurred; and above all, my dear friend, you must treat her like a sick child; give her every thing she asks for and indulge all her whims, particularly as concerns anything that may divert and occupy her mind. Your wife--I am well aware--will claim your love and devotion: it is impossible to restrict her in her demands.”

It was after this that Leon raised the question of removing his wife from Suertebella; but Rubio positively negatived the proposal.

Having abandoned this idea as homicide--that was the word employed by Moreno--they agreed to dismantle the room, to send to Madrid for the servants who were in the habit of waiting on María and for various trifles which would answer the purpose of carrying out the illusion. Before they parted Leon said to his friend.

“Answer me frankly. Will my wife die?”

“It is impossible to say. It may yet end fatally. You must leave me to ascertain precisely the kind of trouble with which we have to contend.”

That evening, when María was herself again, after going through her visions of a hell full of hideous machines and toiling demons, Moreno came in as was previously mentioned.

“Ha, ha!” he exclaimed, smiling as he found the husband and wife in such close proximity. “Like two turtle-doves! And how is my patient?--A good pulse; but we must have rest, absolute rest of body and mind.”

María looked at her husband and frowned.

“No, no. You are not to look so cross at this good man who is as devoted to you as a newly-married lover. You will see--in a few days you will be able to go out together to smell the lilacs, and watch the butterflies. A sensible woman ought never to listen to spiteful gossip. When people are envious what can they do but talk nonsense? Now, my dear lady, you are going to be perfectly rational and calm; we are going to sign a permanent peace and be very fond and loving.... I say it for you both.... Well, let me see your tongue.”

Then he himself mixed a draught, Leon and Rafaela helping him.

While this was going forward in the sick room the Marquis de Fúcar, setting aside for a moment the great business of the loan, already almost concluded, went to join his daughter, and said with a grave face:

“Rubio’s anticipations are very serious. I am afraid we shall have a terrible calamity under our roof. However, we must not despair; science can do much, and God can do more. All we can do is to help science to the best of our little power, and to implore the intervention of Providence.”

Pepa, raising her anxious eyes to look at her father lifted a face so pale that it was death-like; and with the desperation of a person who tears open a wound that it may bleed more freely, she asked:

“Is she dying?”

“That was what I was telling you, and you did not listen,” said Don Pedro, who was also suffering from a wound. “It is only our duty to show our unfortunate guest how deeply we sympathise in his misfortune. We must do something worthy of our house and name. Do not you think it will be well to perform a religious ceremony that may give due expression to our desire to see María out of danger? We will do it on a scale of magnificence. The chapel here stood me in eighty thousand dollars--though it might have cost less if the artists I employed had been men of less talent and pretensions.--Well then, to-morrow I will have a solemn penitential service, which all the servants and people shall attend, with you at their head. I give you full authority to spend as much as you think proper in tapers. The worthy priest from Polvoranca shall celebrate mass, and if you would like to have some more priests, send to all that are within reach.”

Having thus spoken, he sighed deeply and left her. Was it that, having a heavy burthen on his own soul, he yearned to petition the favour and mercy of Heaven on his own behalf? But we do not know what were the troubles which had so suddenly transformed the marquis’ radiant smiles into a sour grimace of annoyance. The loan, after crossing the troubled waters of the Spanish bourse with a fair wind, would this very day reach the haven of realization; and it was quite certain that Fúcar, Soligny and a few other birds of the same feather in Paris, Amsterdam, and London, would haul in a handful of gold for interest, brokerage and commission. What then...?

The chapel of Suertebella was a handsome edifice, at one angle of the mansion; high-roofed, thick-walled, and shining as if it had been varnished. The interior was of stucco, full of imitations of coloured marbles and porphyry, with a great deal of gilding on bosses and mouldings, which produced the effect of a lavish display of livery-buttons and gold cord on the pediments and spandrils. The style of architecture can only be described as Græco-Chino-Roman--Gothic gargoyles combined with ornament of the new classical style which originated at Munich, and which our architects have adopted for the porticoes of our houses, the pantheons of our cemeteries, the entrances of our town-halls, and the dining-rooms of our millionaires. The pseudojasper, gold, and brilliant colours dazzled the eye till they all seemed to be swimming round and round the dome like fishes in a glass bowl. The roof was supported by highly respectable angels who, in the sculptor’s studio, had played the part of seductive nymphs; and the paintings in the dome represented the cardinal Virtues, who had been predestined to figure as Muses. Everything blazed with the glaring splendour which is now fashionable in our private rooms, and which in them is not out of place. There was not a Christian attribute or allegory that had not been evolved from the palette or the sculptor’s mould by the artists employed to decorate this chapel. We shall presently become acquainted with a ribald jester who, it was said, was one day giving a farcical, not to say a sacrilegious explanation of the figures that adorned it: This female figure with bandaged eyes and a chalice in her hand, represented Spain whom the financiers of state had blindfolded that she might not see the bitterness of her cup of ruin; that one, leaning on an anchor, with her eyes disconsolately turned up to Heaven, was Commerce in despair; and the matron caressing a whole tribe of children was Beneficence, a pleasing emblem of the interest taken by the Fúcars in property and labour, and of the tender solicitude with which they lent them a helping hand to the work-house. The four Fathers of the Church, all represented as writing very gravely with “The Eagle’s Quill,” personified the Press, always ready to sing the praises of wealthy capitalists, who, before acting on their own account, take advantage of its ready pen. The vessel sinking in the waves of Tiberias was the State, whose orators and leaders suffer so much buffeting, while the Multiplication of the Loaves was obviously prefigurative of the distribution and reception of certain articles supplied under contract; finally, the stolid Sibyls, sitting with their hands before them in utter absence of mind, represented government administration. And the irreverent commentator went on to give new readings of the texts that were inscribed on the fillets and architraves for the edification of the faithful: “I am Pedro (Peter) and on this stone I will build my house. Give unto me that which is Cæsar’s, and that which is God’s.”

The chapel, the allowance being made for modern taste in ecclesiastical architecture, was a handsome one. It was on a level with the ground-floor, and there was a second door to the garden by which the congregation were admitted. The roof rose higher than that of the house, displaying its bell-tower somewhat ostentatiously. It was dedicated to San Luis Gonzaga--whose image--a really fine piece of sculpture--stood on the high altar beneath a large representation of Calvary.

The pious ceremony took place, as Don Pedro had arranged. The sun had scarcely risen when wax tapers innumerable were lighted on the high altar and in the side chapels, and thousands of delicious flowers, arranged in jars and vases, added their tribute of beauty and perfume. The little sanctuary was, to use a vulgar phrase, a blaze of splendour. The lights and odours inspired a sort of fervour by stimulating the senses and firing the imagination, so that sight and hearing were powerfully excited. All the servants on the estate were present, from the steward to the lowest scullion, and from the head-gardener to the tiniest stable-boy. The service was celebrated by the priest from Polvoranca, a humble protégé of the great house; an old man, somewhat ridiculous in appearance, uniting to the most elaborate ugliness certain eccentricities and manias which, though they had gone much against him in his ecclesiastical career, had made him well known in all the country side. He received from Don Pedro a small salary for officiating every Sunday for the benefit of the servants and women of the house, and hearing them confess once a year--a pious formality that the millionaire kept up, with a view to protecting himself against peculation and domestic difficulties of various kinds.

Pepa Fúcar attended the service in the gallery communicating with the interior of the house; and with her, her waiting-maid and Monina, who could not understand why she was to be so quiet and good, and was on the point of lifting up her voice with a loud shout at the most solemn part of the service. Heaven only knows what she might have said if the nurse had not held her tightly, stopping her mouth, and threatening her that God would punish her by taking away her tongue. This had the desired effect, and Monina sat patiently till the end.

Pepa Fúcar knelt on a stool and leaned over the front of the balcony. Who can guess what was in her mind during that solemn hour, or for what, in truth, her aching soul petitioned?

The service ended, every one left the chapel, but Pepa remained in her place without moving from the attitude she had taken up from the beginning. With her head bent over the cushion and her face half-hidden in her folded hands she had not breathed a word or a sigh. When, at last, she looked up and prepared to rise, she gazed fixedly at the altar without any definite expression on her face; the cushion was wet with her tears, as though a jug of water had been spilt over it. She left the chapel and went towards her rooms; she was silent and grave, her eyes were red, her lips parted as if she must suffocate if she could not draw a deep breath. At the door of her own room she met her father.

Don Pedro, though he had not been present in person at the service, had looked out on to the chapel through a little window in the wall to the left, which opened from a passage in the house, and was screened by a figure of St. Luke the Evangelist. From thence Fúcar could note that all his household were present and that none were missing; he could admire the magnificence of his private sanctuary--_la cathédrale pour rire_, as our ribald jester called it--which in his eyes was “a gem among basilicas” and “full of character.” Indeed, it would have been difficult to refuse that modicum of praise to the grand Christian scheme of decoration worked out by one of the chief scene-painters of the capital.

But we have reason to believe that the good man’s mind rose above this to a loftier range of ideas. He was deeply troubled that day, and no doubt, as he put his solemn face out of the opening in such a manner that it might have been taken for that of an Evangelist or a Father of the Church, his feelings were reverent and prayerful, and he craved something of the Creator. Still, this is mere hypothesis and devoid of foundation; it is put forward here for what it is worth, to fill up the vacuum which must exist in a total absence of data.

This much, at any rate, is certain. He stopped to say to his daughter:

“Every one was there.”

“And how is she this morning? Do you know?” asked Pepa in a voice so husky that it sounded as though her lungs, in their scorching thirst had consumed the air they breathed.

“Be hopeful, my child. The unfortunate woman passed a quieter night, and she is better, Moreno tells me.”

“So that she will recover....”

“It is very probable....” said Don Pedro, but the indifference of his tone showed that he was thinking of something else. “Really, my child, it seems as though God were piling every calamity on us at once!”

As he spoke the poor gentleman could not control his feelings. He held out his arms to his daughter who threw herself into them, and exclaimed in a voice choked with agitation: “Child of my heart--my jewel! How unfortunate you are!”

Pepa shed on her father’s shoulder the few tears she had saved from the Mass. Don Pedro, commanding himself, said with an effort: “But we must not exaggerate.--Nothing is positive.--To-morrow....”

Pepa went into her own room and her father retired to his, where, for the twentieth time, he read and re-read a number of letters and telegrams which had made a deep impression on a mind usually as bright and clear as the spring air and sunshine.