CHAPTER XV.

LET US REJOICE, BELOVED.

In the small but pretty church of the nuns of San Bernardo, in Nieva, there was great bustling. The sacristan, aided by three acolytes, the two serving women of the convent, and a female from the city, celebrated for her skill in dressing the saints, were stirring up a more than ordinary noise in brushing the ornaments of the altars with fox tails and feather dusters. They had no hesitation in standing upon them, and even climbing upon the saints themselves, whenever it was required by the need of dusting some carved work or placing a taper in the proper place. The Mother Abbess from the choir, with her forehead pressed against the grating, shouted her orders like a general-in-chief, in a sharp, piping voice.

"A candlestick there! Yonder a wreath of flowers! Lift up that lamp a little more! Place the crown on that Virgin straight...."

In the interior of the convent likewise reigned considerable excitement. A group of nuns was watching at the door of a cell, as one of their companions was giving the last touches to the poor bed which she was making. She had just put up above the pillow the crucifix demanded by the rules. A great silver waiter stood on the table, which was pine, likewise according to the rules. When the nun had made the bed ready, she came out of the cell, addressing a word or two to the others as she passed. Then she returned with a bundle of clothes in her hand, and all hastened to relieve her of them, unfolding them, pulling them, and giving them a hundred turns. It was the complete dress of a novice,--the white flannel tunic, the linen hood, the shoes, the rosary, the bronze crucifix, and other things. The nuns looked eagerly at each one of the articles, as though it were something that they had never seen before, uttering in low voices many different opinions.

"Ay! it seems to me that this rosary has very coarse beads."--"No, sister, take yours and you will see that they are alike."--"I am going to see, just for my own satisfaction.... It's true; they are alike.... What a goose!"--"The flannel is too harsh."--"It is because it wasn't well washed."--"This hood is beautifully ironed!"--"Hesús mio! what stitches!... that is not sewing, it is basting!... Who made this tunic?"--"The Sister Isabel."--"Then it's splendid!"--"Don't say so, sister, perhaps you wouldn't have done it so well!"--"I? do it worse ... Come ... come ... never in my life did I make such a botch!"--"How many have you ever done, sister?"--"Never did I, never!" repeated the nun, in angry voice. "I could sew better when I was seven years old."

At this moment the Mother Superior appeared in the passage-way; the nun who had chided her companion stepped aside from the group, and said to her,--

"Mother, Sister Luísa has just boasted that she sews better than Sister Isabel, and she lost her temper because I told her that she ought not to do it."

"Is it true, daughter?" demanded the Mother Superior, in a severe tone.

Sister Luísa hung her head.

The Mother Superior meditated a moment or two; then she said:--

"Daughter, you know well that here no one ought to boast of doing anything better than any one else.... You ought to believe yourself the least of all, for perhaps you are.... For some time you have been very far from humble, and it is necessary for us to begin to correct this fault.... First thing, go and ask pardon of Sister Isabel for your fault, and then shut yourself in your cell and pray a rosary to the Virgin.... Afterwards when I am in the reception-room with the novice, you must present yourself there and kneel, so that the people may see that you are in disgrace."

Sister Luísa bent her head still lower and hurried away. A smile of triumph hovered over the lips of the nun.

* * * * *

At the same time, the servants of the Elorza mansion were coming and going, hither and thither, with various objects in their hands. Pedro, the old coachman, was polishing the state carriage, while two stable-boys were grooming the horses. Martin, the cook, was preparing a splendid collation. The maid-servants were running up and down stairs, from the principal floor to Maria's apartments, which were full of people, though it was not yet ten o'clock in the morning. The fifteen or twenty ladies who could scarcely find room to turn around, were all talking at once, as is natural, turning that silent elegant retreat into an insufferable hen-roost. Standing in the middle of it was Señor de Elorza's eldest daughter, half-dressed, and around her were several ladies, some of them on their knees, adorning her and adjusting her as though she were a wooden virgin. Great emotion reigned everywhere. They had already put on her a costly garment of white satin, decorated in front, from the neck to the bottom of the skirt, with a fringe of orange flowers. One lady was just putting on her feet a pair of diminutive and most elegant boots of the same cloth, while another was hurriedly sewing on a number of flowers, which had fallen off. Others were arranging a garland of orange blossoms upon the top of her head; this proceeding caused a great commotion. Amparito Ciudad claimed that the garland was too large, and did not show enough of her friend's beautiful hair; the rest believed that there was no need of making it smaller. After a lively discussion, it was decided to adopt a middle course by taking a number of flowers, though very few, from the wreath. Frequent exclamations were heard from those who took no share in the preparations.

"Ay! what an expense it takes, Dios mio!"

"Can it be her true vocation!... A girl so young and so lively!"

"There is nothing else talked about in town.... Everybody is excited over this fortunate event!"

"Fortunate for her, my dear! I don't know as I shall have strength enough to see the ceremony."

"But I am going to see it, though it should cost me a fit of sickness."

Some were already beginning to shed tears, putting their handkerchiefs to their eyes; others were whispering about the preparations for the festival, and the circumstances which had led the young woman to take the veil. Much was said about a letter which she had written to the Marqués de Peñalta, bidding him farewell, and exculpating herself. Some pitied Ricardo, while others said in an undertone, that he would have no trouble in finding somebody to marry him. "After all, if God called her to Him by this path, had she any reason to turn from Him, because a young lad was in love with her? If she had left him for another, that would be different! but as it was for God, he had no right to complain." This was the same argument that shone in the Señorita de Elorza'a letter, written and sent to Ricardo a fortnight before the day of which we are speaking. Thus it ran:--

* * * * *

"MY DEAR RICARDO,--

"Though it is now some time since the course of our love was interrupted, tacitly, and by virtue of providential circumstances, rather than by my desire, I feel it my duty to explain to thee something about the resolution which I have made, and which, of course, is known to thee, I cannot forget, and indeed I ought not to forget, that thou hast been my betrothed, with the approbation of my parents, and the sincere affection of my heart.

"Before renouncing the world forever, I must tell thee that I have absolutely no reason to complain of thy behavior to me. Thou hast ever been good, true, and affectionate, and hast estimated me higher than I deserve. It is indeed true, that if I were to remain in the world I would not give thee in exchange for any other man, and I should count myself very happy in calling thee my husband, if I did not count myself much more so in being the bride of Jesus Christ. The preference which I make cannot offend or trouble a man who is as good and pious as thou art. Henceforth no earthly love exists between us; there remains only a pure and most sweet friendship, uniting us in the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I shall not forget thee in my poor prayers. Forget me as far as possible. Thou art good, thou art noble, handsome, and rich. Seek for a woman who will deserve thee more than I deserve thee, and marry, and be happy. I shall pray without ceasing for you.

"Adios,

"MARIA."

Could he have had a better gilded pill? No; no; Ricardo had no right to complain.

While the most of the ladies added innumerable glosses to this document, those who were robing the new bride-elect of Jesus were about finishing their task and giving the last touches to her dress, with the same complacency that an artist shows in laying the last shades on his picture, stepping back and coming near a thousand times to realize the effect produced. Here a pin; the throat a little more open to show the beautiful alabaster neck; a few ringlets on her brow carelessly escaping from among the orange flowers; a button that needed fastening. Maria aided her maids of honor with quick motions. All admired her serenity. And, in fact, the young bride could not have shown a face more joyous at such moments. Nevertheless there was a certain agitation noticeable in her joy. Her movements were too quick and eager, as though she were trying to hide the slight trembling of her hands and the tremor that ran over her whole body. Was it a tremor of delight?

Oh, yes, Maria felt an intense delight.

The brilliant rose bloom of her cheeks told the same story; the unnatural glitter of her eyes likewise proclaimed it. Her lips were dry, and her nostrils pink and more dilated than usual. Her white brow was marked by a long, slight furrow, telling of the quick desire, the restless, sensual eagerness hidden in her heart. It was the cheerful eagerness of the epicure, who finds himself face to face with his favorite food after a long fast. Over her excited brilliant face passed a throng of warm flushes, in a vague, intricate confusion of dismay, dread, and voluptuous desires. She was going to be the bride of Jesus Christ and shut herself forever between four walls, passing her whole life in a mysterious union, whose sweet delight she had not as yet enjoyed in full. A great curiosity overwhelmed her, stirred her unspeakably. The choir of the Convent of San Bernardo, where the half light pouring in through the lofty windows slept in mystic calm upon the gray oaken chairs, had always fascinated her. How many times she had trembled, when she saw a silent white figure cross the floor and sit down there in the body of the church. It was a sweet voluptuous trembling, which made her eagerly long to enter that fantastic retreat. The nuns, with their tall white figures, seemed to her like supernatural beings,--angels come down to earth for a while, who would soon mount up to heaven again. She was particularly attracted by one who was young and beautiful; when she saw her enter the choir, she could not take her eyes from her. The stern, classic beauty of that sister, and her clear, steady gaze made an impression upon her, which she could not explain. In her breast sprang up a certain extravagant attraction toward her, and a quick, eager desire to be her friend, or rather her disciple; to kneel before her and say: "Teach me, guide me." Oh, if she would permit me to give her a kiss, even though it were the briefest! One evening a tremendous temptation assailed her to ask her for it. The church was empty; she looked back and saw that the beautiful nun had made her way into the choir and was kneeling near the grating. And, without further consideration as to what she was doing, she went to her and said in trembling voice: "Señora, give me your hand, that I may kiss it." The nun made a graceful sign that it could not be, but rising, she offered her the crucifix of her rosary, with a smile so sweet and assuring, that Maria, when she kissed it, felt deeply moved.

Always when she entered the church of the convent she felt the same rapture, a species of voluptuous somnolence penetrating her whole being like a caress. From that choir came languorous, sweet murmurs, calling her, inviting her to leave the pleasures of the world for others more sweet and mysterious, which she had already begun to enjoy without full knowledge of them. Jesus had granted her already rich enjoyments in her prayers, but He would not abandon himself completely,--certainly would not lose consciousness of self in the arms of the bride; would not give His all to her with the infinite, immortal love which she eagerly desired, except within that silent poetic retreat where no sound could disturb them.

At last the day had come for her to satisfy her desire; within an hour she would be within that mysterious choir which had caused her so many dreams, and would cross with floating tunic the warm sunlight falling through the lofty windows. She felt impatient for the moment to arrive. She was nervous, restless, but smiling. Never had she been so self-satisfied. Her friends were not weary of exalting her virtue and heroism; the town regarded her with surprise, and around her she heard only praise and words of admiration. Maria really found herself upon a pedestal. And like every one who is under the public gaze, our heroine succeeded in hiding the emotions of her soul, and showed a serene and joyous face. It was her day; it was the day of the great battle, and she smoothed her brow and composed the expression of her face, like a general when the hour of the attack has come.

Nevertheless, from time to time she gazed with anxiety at one of the corners of her boudoir. In that corner sat her sister, with her face in her hands, sobbing. At last, not being able to control herself longer, she suddenly left her maids of honor and went to Marta, and bending down her face so that it touched her, she said:--

"Do not weep, dear, do not weep more; ... there is no misfortune here to make you so sorrowful. On the other hand, think of the great favor which God has shown in calling me to be his bride.... You ought to rejoice, my little pigeon;[70] come, don't weep any more, darling [_monina_].... Consider that you are taking away my strength."

And as she said that, she kissed her pretty little sister's smooth rosy cheek. The girl replied amid her sobs,--

"Ay! Maria, I lose you forever!"

"No, monina, no ... you will often see me ... and you will speak with me...."

"What does that amount to?... I am going to lose you, my sister."

And Marta could not help saying this "I lose you; I lose you forever"--she could not because it was the only thought that filled her heart at that instant, her heart that never was untrue; she was accustomed to speak freely her beliefs and opinions. Marta accepted without resistance the idea that her sister was doing well to enter the convent, but she was absolute mistress of her heart; there no one held sway but herself, and her heart told her that she had no longer any sister, that all Maria's love, all her tenderness was about to evaporate like a divine essence in the depths of a mysterious, vague something, totally incomprehensible to her.

Just as Maria's toilet was almost completed, a young man came rushing into the room with the violence of a gust of wind. It was that youth with the banged hair, who gradually had made himself indispensable in all festivals, solemnities, ceremonies, and merry-makings of the town.

"Mariíta! the secretary of the señor bishop sends me to tell you that his eminence is ready, and is at this moment starting for the church."

"Very well, I shall be right out."

"I have attended to the organ-loft. I notified Don Serapio and the organist.... Preciosa, Mariíta preciosa.... Do notice the blue hangings which I put on the picture of the Virgin...."

"Thanks, Ernesto, many thanks; I am deeply grateful to you."

At a sign from Maria all the ladies arose, and hastened behind her down the stairs, but for all that there was no cessation of their impertinent chatter. The young woman went straight to her father's room, and remained shut in it for some time. No one knew what passed within. Those who were waiting at the door heard the sound of sobs, confused sentences spoken in angry tones, the movement of chairs. The ladies, waiting in the anteroom, whispered to those who came in, "She is taking farewell, farewell of her father.... Don Mariano will not attend the ceremony."

Shortly afterward, Maria re-appeared, smiling and serene as before, saying, "Come, ladies, let us go!"

With the same serenity she passed through the great room of the mansion without giving a glance at the furniture, and descended the broad, stone stairway without showing the slightest trepidation, as she walked along in her dainty white satin shoes.

And yet what recollections she left behind her! How many hours of light and joy! The prattle of her childish lips, sweet as the trilling of a bird; her father's somewhat gruff but, for that very reason, all the sweeter singing, as he rocked her to sleep in his arms; the dreams, the fresh laughter of her girlhood; the lovely sun of April mornings, filling her room with light; the constant caresses of her mother, the warmth of home; in short, that warmth which all the treasures of earth cannot buy; all this remained behind her, imprinted on the walls, ingrained in the furniture. And she left it all without a tear!

At the door stood waiting a magnificent barouche, drawn by four white horses. Pedro had shown his taste by decorating them with great blue plumes, and by donning a livery of the same color. On that day everything must be blue, the color of purity and virginity. Even the sky, for greater glory, had clad itself in blue, and shone clear and beautiful. Maria climbed into the carriage with the Señora de Ciudad, her godmother, and the others took leave of her for the nonce, and hastened to the church.

Extraordinary agitation reigned in the town. The taking of the veil by the Señorita de Elorza, though expected for some time, nevertheless did not fail to make a profound impression. A young lady so rich, so beautiful, so flattered by all that the world considered gay and desirable! Interminable comments were made during these days, as people met in the shops. "But didn't they say that she was to be married to the marquesito?"--"No! not at all! there's no such thing. The marquesito was greatly disappointed; the girl, after the strange experience of being arrested, and her mother's death, returned with more zest than ever to her pious occupations; it is decidedly her vocation: there is no fickleness about her." Some looked upon it in one way, some in another; but as a general thing, Maria's conduct aroused lively sympathy, and over many, especially among the people, it exerted a certain fascination like everything extraordinary, and up to a certain point, marvellous. She had the reputation of being a saint: the quenching of all the splendor of her beauty, wealth, and talent in the solitudes of the cloister, was the unparalleled complement of her fame, the crowning stroke in the process of her popular canonization. All those rough women, who pitilessly elbowed each other in order to see her pass toward the church, would have felt themselves defrauded, if she had wedded prosaically, and had they seen her arm in arm with her husband, preceded by a nurse-maid with a tender infant in arms.

The plaza was full of spectators. When the young lady entered the carriage, and Pedro, cracking his tongue and his whip, started up his horses, there was a great tumult among the throng, which reached Maria's ears like a chorus of flatteries. The people separated precipitately, making way for her to pass. In presence of that magnificence, which only some old woman had ever seen before, the peaceful inhabitants found themselves overwhelmed with respect, and equally excited by a great curiosity. The carriage rolled away, at first slowly, breaking the close ranks of the spectators; the horses pranced impatiently, shaking their blue plumes as though they were anxious to carry the bride to the arms of the mystic Bridegroom. It was a royal procession; and, in truth, Maria, from her elegant appearance, splendidly adorned, with her deep blue eyes, shining with emotion, and her cheeks of milk and roses, was worthy of being a queen. She was a figure of remarkable beauty, and offered many points of resemblance to the fair Virgin of Murillo, that we see in the Museum at Madrid. The women of the town could not restrain their enthusiasm, and they burst out in a thousand flattering adjectives.

"Look at her! look at her! What a splendid creature,--a woman after my very heart!"

"I should like to devour her with kisses!"

"And what a rich dress she wears!"

"They say that it came expressly from Paris. She did not want to dress in _tisú_; the chasubles which it will make into will be given away separately, and the gown will remain for the Virgin of Amor Hermoso."

"Oh, I never saw such a lovely creature!... She looks like an angel."

The carriage followed its majestic course, and the young woman smiled sweetly on the multitude. From two or three houses a deluge of flowers was showered upon her, and their variegated petals for a moment enameled the white cloth of her dress; a few remained entangled in her hair. The people applauded.

"Woman, this girl's vocation teaches us a lesson."

"How fortunate she is!... Who would be in her place?"

"It can't be said that she was obliged to.... I know that her father was furious when he heard about it, and tried every way to dissuade her."

"Come now, she is wedded to Jesus Christ, and her family don't like it," declared a youth, who was listening to this conversation.

The women turned around ready to crush the scoffer, but he made off, laughing.

And the carriage continued on its way under the radiant sun, which made the panes of the balconied windows glitter, and reflected on the white houses of the town with transports of delight. The sky opened up its purest depths, smiling upon all the wishes for happiness, all the joyful aspirations of mortals, even upon those of the beautiful maiden who, of her own free will, was going to lose it from sight and shut herself forever in the shadows of the cloister. The carriage passed by the feudal palace of the Peñaltas, the ancient walls of which, spotted here and there with moss, cast upon the street a mantle of gloom, making still more vivid the blazing light of the sun.

What was Ricardo doing during this time?

Maria did not ask this; she passed by without casting even a furtive look at the Gothic windows; on her lips still hovered the serene, condescending smile. The shadow nevertheless caused in her a slight tremor of chill.

At the church door all her girl friends, including Martita, were waiting for her. The temple was overflowing with people; they made way for her to pass. At the high altar the bishop of----, who had come purposely to give her the veil, stood ready to receive her. He knelt and prayed for a few instants. The confused murmur of the congregation ceased; an intense silence reigned.

The prelate began to speak in a clear and solemn voice:--

"I know, beloved daughter, that you have formed the resolution to shut yourself forever in this holy house, to the end that you may be all your life long the servant of the Lord.... I know, likewise, that your will is steadfast, and that you have been enabled to resist not only the vain seductions of the world, but also those proper pleasures which the goodness of God allows us to enjoy.... But life, my daughter, can be in the midst of mortification and penance more broad than in the tumult of pleasures; and while our spirit remains imprisoned in the flesh we are the target of severe and constant temptations."

The venerable bishop spoke with extraordinary deliberation, making long pauses at the end of his sentences, which lent great dignity to his discourse. His voice was sweet and clear, and rang through the silent nave of the church like sweet music. He went on to trace with terrible accuracy the details of the religious life, spreading out before the young woman's eyes all the apparatus of mortification which it involved; the pleasures of the world entirely forgotten, the senses crucified, earthly affections, even the purest, crushed; and this, not for a day, not for a month, not for a year only, but for all days, all months, all years, until the hour of death, always eagerly seeking for pain as others seek for pleasure. But after he had painted the gloomy picture of the mortification, he went on to express eloquently the pure, lively pleasures to be found in it. "To trust one's self to the arms of God, as a child goes to its mother, that he may do with us as he pleases. To find God in the depths of bitterness and grief, to unite one's self to Him.... To possess Him ... and to be the beloved child in whom His infinite grandeur can take delight.... To live eternally united to Him.... To be His bride!... Is not that a sufficient recompense for the petty sorrows that we may experience in a life so brief?"

Began the profession of faith. The bishop asked, reading his questions from a book, if she were ready to leave the life of the world and intercourse with its creatures, to consecrate herself exclusively to the service of God. Maria replied that she had heard the voice of the Lord and hastened at the call. The prelate asked once more if she had meditated well on her resolution, if she had made it from some mundane consideration, wounded by some ephemeral disillusion. Maria replied that she came of her own free will to give herself up to the Beloved of her soul and rest in Him; all the armies of the earth could not make her retrace her steps, for the Lord had made her steadfast and immovable as Mount Zion.

Over the heads of the faithful appeared a great silver waiter, the same which a few hours before was in one of the convent cells, and on it the habit of the novice of San Bernardo. The prelate blessed it.

Then were heard the sharp, nasal tones of the organ, and the procession took up the line of march: Maria in front, and at her side her godmother and Marta; next came the bishop and behind him the clergy. Some of the people followed and some stayed in the church. Near the door was the entrance to the convent, through which they passed, penetrating into a large, gloomy cloister, illuminated at intervals by a bright sunbeam coming through the swell of the arches. At the end of one of the galleries was an open door, and guarding it, silent, motionless, were seen the white figures of two nuns with wax tapers in their hands. The bride-elect again knelt, and instantly rising she convulsively pressed her sister to her heart. It was the last embrace. When she wished to extricate herself, Martita's arms were so tightly clasped about her neck that it required the intervention of several ladies to accomplish it. She also kissed all her girl friends, who wept bitterly, while she, giving an example of sublime serenity, joyous and smiling, entered the house of the Lord escorted by the two nuns.

The doors closed. Though it was the month of August, Marta and her friends felt a sudden chill in the cloister, and hastened to take refuge in the church, where Don Serapio, accompanied by the organ, was annihilating Stradella's beautiful prayer.

All waited some time with impatient curiosity. No one paid any attention to the cracked voice of the proprietor of the canning factory; the eyes of the congregation were fixed, glued to the choir of the Bernardas, gazing through the bars at the little door in the rear.

At last she appeared. She came, escorted still by the two nuns. The garb of novice made her look a little older. Yet she was beautiful; very beautiful; for she really was beautiful, that saintly and extraordinary creature. The people devoured her with their eyes, and repeated in a whisper, "She comes smiling, she comes smiling."

Ah, yes, the new bride of Jesus Christ was smiling, in her expectation of the sweet reward for her sacrifice. But the venerable man who, at that same instant, was walking alone through one of the state departments of the Elorza mansion ... he did not smile! And the young man who, at the same time, was sitting with folded arms, and head sunken for his breast, face to face with a woman's portrait, was he perhaps smiling?... No, no! neither did he smile.

The prelate came to the grating, and said to the novice,--

"Thou shalt not call thyself Maria Magdalena, but, Maria Juana de Jesús."

The novice prostrated herself before the abbess, and respectfully kissed the crucifix of her rosary. Then she embraced, one after another, her new companions. While this scene was transpiring, many of the ladies in the congregation shed tears. The bishop said the solemn mass, and finally all the sisterhood, including Maria, took the Communion. The organ shrilled, whistled, and snorted with more energy than ever, spurred, perhaps, by competition. It seemed as though Don Serapio and the organ had entered into a tremendous contest, a duel to the death, and the obstreperous consequences fell upon the ears of the faithful. But the organ mocked the manufacturer in most audacious fashion. When he reached the highest point of ecstasy, emitting from this throat some complicated _fioritura_, or _fermata_, a horrisonant bellowing broke in upon him pitilessly, leaving him lost and inundated for a long time. Don Serapio struck out again with a tender note, sure of the effect.... Zas! the organ, like a blood-thirsty beast, fell upon it, and tore it in pieces. Thus it wantoned for a long time, until, tired of amusing itself and intoxicated with triumph, it suddenly broke in with all its voices at once, clamoring in the silence of the church with a monstrous insufferable shriek. The manufacturer remained choked in that diabolical roar, and ceased to appear.

Silence reigned for a few moments, but it was disturbed by a peculiarly melancholy tinkling. It was the curtain of the choir being drawn. Nothing more was seen. They began to put out the lights, and the people withdrew in all haste.

Maria's intimate friends went to the reception-room[71] to give her their felicitations.

The reception-room was a square, and rather gloomy apartment, cut in two by a double iron grating. The novice appeared, accompanied by the Mother Superior.... Still smiling, perhaps?... Yes, smiling.

"What examples you have given us of courage and goodness, Maria," said one to her.

The young woman shrugged her shoulders, with a gesture of throwing from her the glory which was heaped upon her.

"Don't fail to pray for us!"

"Yes, I will pray for you, dear. We"--she added with a little emphasis--"we are obliged to pray for those who remain in the world."

"If you knew how all the servants wept a moment since."

"Poor people!... I love them all so much!"

"Here is Marta, who wants to say good by."

"Come nearer, Marta ... Are you becoming reconciled yet?"

"What remedy have I, Maria," replied the girl, struggling to repress her sobs.

"No, sister; you must resign yourself gladly, and be thankful to the Lord for the favors which he has heaped upon me.... You will always be good, will you not?... Console papa.... Don't forget those prayers which I gave you, nor fail to read the books of which I told you.... Come to hear mass every day.... Try to be always earnest and humble...."

Ah, no! Martita would not try, would not try. As she was born good and humble there is no need of striving for it. In this regard the bride of the Lord may be at rest.

The small room where the two nuns stood near the grating seemed like a prison cell by its ugliness and gloom. Their tunics stood out like two white spots against the black lattice.

The friends took turns in speaking, or all spoke at once to Maria, with a strange mixture of admiration, of pity, of curiosity, and of affection. They asked a thousand impertinent questions and many ridiculous requests about prayers, medals, and other things. A few young fellows who had belonged to the old tertulias at the Elorza mansion, had slipped in with the crowd, and were gazing with wide-open eyes of wonder at the new nun, but dared not speak to her. She showed herself serene and lovely, and called them by name with a certain reassuring condescension, giving them messages for their families. The boldest was the ceremonious youth of the banged hair, who stepped up, and reaching the grating, very much stifled, called the novice by her new name, saying,--

"Sister Juana, I want to ask you a favor; please give me as a remembrance a few orange blossoms from the crown which you wear...."

"If the mother is willing...." murmured Maria, turning her face to the Mother Superior.

She bowed assent, and the gift of orange flowers was liberal and gracefully granted.

At that instant the Sister Luisa, the nun who was to be punished for her vanity, came in and fell upon her knees, but not the slightest trace of a blush passed over her face. The habit of performing such deeds deprived them of all worth.

The conversation wandered off upon festivals, novenas to come, the journey of the vicar who was called to be canon of the cathedral, his successor, and other subjects. Insensibly all were lowering the tone of their voices until there was only a monotonous and melancholy whispering. It seemed like a visit of condolence rather than of congratulation. They continued to extol Maria's courage and virtue. "Ay, Dios mio! to think that she is a prisoner forever and living a life of so much labor...."

The Mother Superior looking at the novice, with a sort of half smile not very encouraging, exclaimed, "Poor little one! poor little one! "But she, turning around with one of those graceful gestures so characteristic, replied, "Rich little one, rich little one,[72] say I, mother!"

Gradually the young men had been getting near the girls, and without respect to the holiness of the place, or heeding the stern crucifixes fastened to the walls, they began to whisper more or less roguish remarks.

"When are you going to follow her example, Fulanita? The truth is, that if all of you did the same, what would become of us? But you would be sure to look lovely in the habit! See here, Amparito! If you should become a nun, I should wish to be vicar!"

"Now I wish you would be a little more serious, Suárez."

"How long should I have to be a priest to become vicar?... the worst thing is the grating.... Can't the vicar get behind the grating?"

"Be silent, man alive! it is a sin to say such things in this place!"

Rosarito and her lover had taken possession of a corner, only from time to time making some insignificant remark roused into the category of the sublime by the inflection of the voice and the trembling of the lips. Only the old women, and a few young girls who had not succeeded in finding mates, still continued talking with the nuns. At last the Mother Superior arose from her chair, and Maria followed her example.

* * * * *

A man, a venerable man, crossed the plaza of Nieva with rapid strides; he followed the winding streets, he reached the convent of San Bernardo, he entered the court, mounted the stairway, pushed open the door of the reception-room, forced his way through the people, and laid heavy hands on the grating. He intended to say something solemn, something tremendous. It could be seen by the wrathful expression of his face, by the pallor of his cheeks, by the disorder of his white locks.

But he let his head fall, and only murmured,--

"My daughter! my daughter!"

And a flood of tears burst from his eyes.