Chapter V.

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. {247} 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.

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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.