CHAPTER IV.

HOW THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA WAS CONVERTED INTO DUKE OF THURINGEN.

A few days later Ricardo set forth from home as usual about ten o'clock in the morning and turned his steps toward the house of his betrothed. It was not love alone that impelled him to walk the street so early, but as much the melancholy solitude that reigned at the present time in the vast seignorial mansion where he lived: for our hero had been alone in the world a little more than a year. His father, the old Marqués de Peñalta, had died when he was under six, and he had scarcely more than a vague remembrance of his pale face between the sheets of the bed when they raised him up to give him a kiss a few hours before he died. He remembered also how on that same day every one had hugged him and kissed him, with tears, and this had attracted his attention and made him ask, "Why are you all crying to-day?"

His mother had loved him with one of those concentrated and fierce affections which destroy by very reason of over care. During his boyhood she had kept him tied to her apron-strings, never consenting for him to take part in the games of the other lads, lest he should hurt himself. Even when he was quite a youth, she always used to put him to bed, offering with him a series of innocent prayers, and sitting by his bedside with folded arms until he fell asleep, when she would silently leave his chamber on tip-toe. When he reached early manhood, she had nothing to do but think of her son's career, for the late marquis had provided that he should follow one. Ricardo wanted to enter the artillery. How many tears the lad's resolute decision cost the mother! The first time that he went to Segovia, the good lady thought she should die: she made up her mind not to leave the house until her son returned, and she carried out her intention. When he came home to spend his vacation, she could not be enough at his side, caressing him and reading in his eyes his slightest caprices, so as to carry them out instantly. Two or three days before it was time for him to return, she would begin to sob and cry: she held him close to her bosom for long moments and made him promise a thousand times to write her every day, to cover himself up warm during his journey, and not to go out nights. The only thing which served to divert her for a short time was the preparation of his cadet's chest, with which she took so much pains that it lacked nothing, from the more usual articles of dress, down to a piece of court plaster and a package of lint in case he were wounded. Ricardo always avoided leave-taking by escaping on the sly.

Thanks to his genial, happy, and sympathetic nature, rather than by his application, the young Marqués de Peñalta finished his course. At college everybody loved him, students as well as professors. He was one of those frank and friendly young fellows with whom it is difficult to quarrel, and whom we all go to as a confidant worthy of sharing the secrets of our hearts in the bitter misfortunes of life. He was always found smiling and unreserved, bringing joy and confidence wherever he went, and rarely did a dispute arise between two cadets which he did not succeed in bringing to a friendly issue. In spite of his conciliatory temperament no one in college or out of it questioned his courage, much less the remarkable prowess of his fists. More than once, in the frequent quarrels between the cadets and the peasants, which generally broke out in candle-light balls, he had floored three or four stout carls with as many blows, which attracted all the more attention from the crowd because there was nothing stout or athletic in his figure.

One day, while encamped in the park at Sevilla, the colonel called him into his tent and asked him,--

"Isn't it a number of days since you have had a letter from your mother, Peñalta?"

Ricardo grew as pale as death.

"What is it, colonel? what is it?"

"Don't be alarmed, child;[12] I happened to learn that she wasn't very well."

Ricardo understood perfectly, and fell into the colonel's arms, shedding a flood of tears. That night he took the train for the north.

The dismal night spent in that journey remained deeply impressed upon his mind. When the engine whistled, and his comrades, who had come to see him off, standing on the platform, waved their _adios_, he went and sat in a corner of the carriage, wrapped up in his cloak, feigning to sleep, in order better to abandon himself to his painful, gloomy thoughts. Oh, how painful and gloomy his thoughts! He imagined the guardian angel of his infancy, the mother of his heart, dying alone, without receiving her son's last kiss, perhaps calling for him with yearning in the supreme moment of her agony. He remembered that when he had last left her, her health was rather feeble, and the embrace which she gave him was much longer than usual, and her kisses more numerous, as though the poor woman had felt a presentiment that she should never see him again. In her wide, moist eyes he read a fervent silent prayer that he would abandon his profession and not leave her. But he, pleased with the vanities of society, and seduced by the voice of selfishness, had paid no heed to this prayer which the unhappy woman had not dared to formulate with her lips. He felt deeply angry with himself, and called himself the most insulting and humiliating names. From time to time he put his head out of the window and breathed the cool night air, to prevent the sobs from choking him. The vague, mysterious outline of the undulating landscape, wrapt in shadows, transformed his despair into grief, which gradually changed into a solemn melancholy like the gloomy clouds hovering above the still more gloomy earth. The silent majesty of inanimate nature calmed his agitation, but it made him think with cold chills of the perfect loneliness awaiting him. The tie that bound him to earth, and through which he felt that all human beings were his kin, was cut; now he had no one in the world whom he could call his own. The wind, stirred by the swift rush of the train, hummed in his ears and seemed to say to him, Alone! alone! The harsh racket of the wheels and engine violently excited his morbid state of mind, giving him a sensation almost of pain like that caused by the thoughts rushing through his brain. The noisy, metallic rhythm of the wheels likewise seemed to say, with still more relentless accent, Alone! alone! His sad face followed the far-off line of the horizon, and this came back to him in quivering, prophetic reflections, which barely sufficed to cleave asunder the network of shadows, gloom upon gloom. The light from the engine cast a reddish gleam, tingeing as with blood the ground and the trees lining the track. Where there were no trees, the telegraph poles flew past him with bewildering rapidity like the happy hours of his youth. Above his head floated the huge black plume of the smoke, emitted by the smoke-stack of the engine, and this, as it disappeared in the atmosphere, in dying made a thousand strange and monstrous phantasms. These phantasms, as they fled away, rolling along just above the ground, seemed also to say mournfully, Alone! alone! Thereupon, being no longer able to endure the icy breath of the deserted landscape which penetrated his breast and parched his eyes, he shut the window and again returned to his corner and his tears.

In the car were four other people: an elderly señora and a young man of twenty or twenty-five, a girl of eighteen or twenty, and a little girl of five or six years old,--all of whom seemed to be her children. The señora went to sleep, though she kept opening her eyes to watch the child, who was incessantly running from one side to the other; the two young people were chatting quietly and confidentially together. The sight of this mother surrounded by her children and often looking at them lovingly still more deeply affected Ricardo. The gentle murmur of the brother and sister's conversation, repeatedly broken by repressed laughter, roused in his heart a keen, melancholy envy. The young girl was beautiful, with a noble, fascinating face. Ricardo, without realizing it, watched her all night, but she seemed to give no heed to him. When the guard of the station shouted, "Cordoba! twenty minutes for refreshments!" all hastily got up and collected their things in preparation to leave the train. Then only the young lady gave him a long, sweet look, and as she went out, said with a sad, sympathetic smile, "Good night, and a happy journey to you."[13] There was no doubt that she had noticed his grief.

Ricardo felt deeply sorry to have them take their departure, as though some tide of affection bound him to that family, and he felt an inclination to say to the mamma, "Señora, I have just lost my mother; I am alone in the world, and I have no one to love me, and no one to love. Won't you take me home with you as your son?" The car door closed with a bang, the bell rang, the hoarse shriek of the engine was heard, and the train sped on its way with its metallic clatter, which ceaselessly cried in the silence of the night, Alone! alone! alone!

A few relatives and friends were waiting for him, and they went with him silently to his home, where they left him after a few meaningless words. During the days that followed he received many visits of condolence from people who extolled his mother's virtues and recommended great resignation. All called him Señor Marqués. Never did he suffer so much as at such times. The only person with whom he enjoyed talking was Don Mariano Elorza, who had been a good friend of his father's, and whose house he visited very familiarly whenever he came to Nieva during his vacations. Don Mariano, who was cordial and friendly to everybody, could not well help showing himself doubly affectionate to him on account of the sorrowful situation in which he was placed. His house during the period which followed the marquesa's death, was a place of refuge for our young friend, where his grief was consoled, and he found a little of that family life which he so greatly missed. On the other hand, it must be said that Ricardo had always felt toward Don Mariano's eldest daughter a strong admiration and affection, which easily changed into love when age and occasion offered, and frequency of intercourse stimulated it, and there was still greater reason for it since neither he nor she had ever been in love before. Long before they were formally engaged, the marriage of the young Marqués de Peñalta and the Señorita de Elorza used to be talked about in the city. It was a marriage desired and demanded by public opinion; for it must be remarked that the families of Peñalta and Elorza were the richest in town, and the public always consider it logical for wealth to seek wealth as rivers seek the sea. Accordingly, Ricardo and Maria were declared husband and wife not long after they were born, and the truth is, the gossips of the town would never have forgiven them if they had failed to carry out the edict passed by all the tertulias of Nieva. We know on good authority that the young people had no thought of any such intention, and that they had accepted the sovereign decree with the greatest meekness.

Returning now to where we left off, it is sufficient for us to remark that Ricardo very quickly reached the porch of the house of Elorza, which was large and gloomy. From the great solid door, darkened by time and use, hung a bronze knocker, with which he rapped. He was immediately admitted into a rather large court, with a fountain in the centre. A broad flight of stone steps with balustrade of the same material led from it. It was now somewhat the worse for wear, and needed repairs in many places. On the first landing this stairway divided into two arms, one of which led to the apartments of the owners, the other to those of the servants. The former ended in a wide corridor, or gallery, from which one looked through windows into the court. The whole house presented the same elegance as that of the old palaces, although it was built at a comparatively modern period. It had the advantage over those old ancestral mansions, like the Marqués de Peñalta's, in that it had not been designed to minister so much to the vanity of its masters as to the suitable distribution of its rooms for the conveniences of daily life. It was not dark and gloomy, as those are apt to be; on the contrary, its whole interior spoke of joy, comfort, and elegance. It was, in fact, a great building, without being pretentious, and comfortable, without falling into the unpleasing vulgarity of many modern constructions. It held a conciliatory middle course between aristocratic and middle-class ideals, combining the proud lordliness of the one and the practical luxurious tendencies of the other.

The house in a certain way mirrored the position of its master and mistress. Both were children of the most important families not only in Nieva, but in the whole province in which the city is situated. The señora was sister of the Marqués de Revollar, who cut such a figure in Madrid a few years ago by his incredible dissipation and prodigality, and who afterwards, being totally ruined and driven away by his creditors, had taken refuge in the army of the Pretender, whom he served as minister and adviser. Don Mariano came from a family less ancient and glorious but far more opulent. His grandfather had made an immense fortune in Mexico during the final years of the last century, and with it he had become the most important landowner in Nieva, and had built the house of which we are speaking. Not only himself, but his son and his son's son, had succeeded in giving lustre to their millions by allying themselves with noble families.

Ricardo made his way through the various rooms of the house of Elorza with as much familiarity as though he had been at home, without even taking off his hat. When he entered Doña Gertrudis's boudoir, this señora, assisted by two waiting-women, was taking a dish of broth. On seeing our hero, she placed the cup on the little stand in front of her, and pushing back her easy-chair, she exclaimed in a doleful tone,--

"Ay, my dear,[14] you come at an evil hour."

"Why, what's the matter?"

"I'm dying, Ricardo, I'm dying."

"Do you feel worse?"

"Yes, my son, yes; I feel very ill; it is beyond the power of words to say how ill I feel. If I don't die to-day, I shall never die. I spent the whole night doing nothing but groan, and then--and then--that tiger of a Don Maximo has not come yet, though I have sent him two messages. May God forgive him! May God forgive him!"

Doña Gertrudis shut her eyes as though she were making ready to die without either temporal or spiritual comfort.

Ricardo, accustomed to these vaporings, remained a long time silent. At length he said in an indifferent tone,--

"Did you know Enrique has succeeded in exchanging the jewelry, and the new set came yesterday all right?"

"Indeed? thank God!"[15] replied Doña Gertrudis, opening her eyes; "I certainly thought they wouldn't be willing to exchange it."

"Why not?"

"Of course, because by selling the other they got rid of an old thing, which I don't know how they will ever sell now."

"Yes, but they would lose a customer who brings them much gain. Don't you see, Enrique receives commissions from the whole province?"

"That's true enough; but don't you know that these traders are blinded by avarice? Uph! what wretched people. I tell you I can't bear to see tradesmen, Ricardo; I can't bear to see them, nor painters either!"

After expressing this unfavorable opinion of commerce, which, in the tribunal of her mind, she made coextensive with all industry and to the mechanical arts in general, Doña Gertrudis again closed her eyes with a gesture of woe, and continued in this strain:--

"What I am sure of, my son, is that I am not going to see you married, and that you will be obliged to postpone the wedding on my account. I feel very ill, very ill; my heart tells me that I am going to die before the day of your marriage; and the truth is, that it would be better for me to die if I have got to suffer so much."

"Come, Doña Gertrudis, don't say such things. Who is going to die? You must surely get better gradually; you will be cured, and you will be well and plump so that it will be a delight to see you."

Instead of brightening up at these words, Doña Gertrudis grew angry:--

"That's nonsense, Ricardo; my illness is mortal, even if no one thinks so; my husband won't believe it, but very soon he will be convinced of it; I don't complain merely from habit, not at all. Ay! my dear, if you knew how I suffer, sitting in this easy-chair!"

It may be declared with certainty that from the day on which the priest had invoked the nuptial blessing on Doña Gertrudis, this noble señora had done nothing else but nurse her bodily woes and tribulations, dragging out a petty existence amid the strangest and obscurest ailments that were ever known. Before the birth of her eldest daughter, Maria, she had suffered from hemorrhage and consumption. Then for several years afterwards, until her second daughter, Marta, was born, she complained of a terrible pain in her heart, so sharp and cruel that many times she had fainted away. The symptoms of this disease, as related by the patient, would fill any one with terror. Sometimes she thought she felt her heart handled and squeezed to the last degree; at others she thought that it was freezing, and then they had her shivering so that all the furs and flannels which they put on her breast had not the slightest effect, until by an abrupt transition she went into a heated oven, where she was roasted to such a degree that her hands in her paroxysms tore into fragments whatever garments she had on; again, finally, she was conscious of some animal gnawing it with his teeth, and of causing such exquisite agony that she could not refrain from shrieking. Don Maximo, the young graduate in medicine,[16] was absolutely nonplussed by such a pathological case, and at each visit he prophesied the immediate death of his patient unless the remedy for spasms which he prescribed should not instantly restore her safe and sound. As Doña Gertrudis did not make haste to die, nor did her extraordinary malady disappear, Don Maximo came to lose all faith in her. He kept up his visits to the house, but always at his regular hour, from which he rarely deviated even though Doña Gertrudis often sent for him by messengers, begging him to play the old farce over again in her sick-room. Don Maximo ended by having the greatest contempt for his noble client's infirmities, and he went so far as to characterize them publicly in the apothecary shop, where he was an assistant, as woman's _cajigalinas_. The exact meaning of the word _cajigalinas_ was never known by the public or anybody else, nor can it be decided whether it was a private invention of Don Maximo's, or whether it was derived from some very ancient, even some dead, language which the licentiate had studied. The word, from its root, seems to be of Semitic origin, but I do not venture to settle this question off-hand; let the wise men decide. What is indubitable is that Don Maximo intended thereby to mean something that was insignificant, mean, or of little account; and this is enough for us to know what to make of the opinion of science in regard to Doña Gertrudis's ills.

After Maria's birth Doña Gertrudis's sufferings did not disappear, but they returned in a new form. Her heart was considerably calmed down, but instead, all the afflicted señora's muscles and tendons began to suffer contraction, causing powerful pains, preventing her for some months from using her limbs at all, and finally leaving her, though greatly improved, yet obliged when she walked to lean on her husband or one of her daughters. Don Maximo at the beginning of this new phase showed himself preoccupied and captious to the last degree; he studied with watchful eye all the symptoms and causes, prescribed remedies for spasms by the gallon, made use, in a word, of all the resources which science (that is, Don Maximo's science) offers for such emergencies, but without reaching any satisfactory results. At length the word _cajigalinas_, of Semitic origin, once more appeared on his lips, and from that time on he never entered the señora's room without a slight smile of incredulity hovering on his dark face.

Ricardo still remained a while at Doña Gertrudis's side, and then he left her to scour the house in search of the girls. He found Marta in the kitchen busily engaged in making pastry for pies.

"Where's Maria, _ma petite ménagére_?"

"She's in her room, dressing; she'll be down soon."

"If I disturb you in your work, I'm going; if not, I'll stay."

"You don't disturb me, if you'll only stand out of the light a little--there, that'll do!"

"All right! I'll stay and learn how to make--what is it you're making?"

"Pork pies."

"Well, then, to make pork pies."

The girl raised her head, smiling at her future brother-in-law, and then she resumed her work. She was standing at a low table which, judging from its shining surface, was meant for the operation now going on. She wore an enormous white apron like the kitchen girls, and on her head a cap no less white. Her great bright black eyes made a more brilliant contrast with this costume, and so did her jetty hair. She had rolled up the sleeves of her dress and bared a pair of soft arms, which were more fully rounded than might have been expected at her age. Her arms bespoke a woman in full possession of all the piquant attractions, all the graceful curves of her sex; they were the smooth white arms of a Flemish maiden, but solid and well-knit like those of a working-girl; they might have served as a model for a sculptor, or to keep a room in daintiest order. With them she rolled from side to side, on the top of the table, a great lump of yellowish dough, manipulating it and doubling it over and over constantly without thought of rest. The dough spread out softly over the table because of the lard which shortened it, making a slight noise like the rustle of silk. A few maid-servants were bustling about the kitchen, attending to their duties. Ricardo watched the operation for an instant without speaking, but before long he exclaimed with signs of astonishment,--

"What an extraordinary thing! what an extraordinary thing!"

The maid-servants turned their heads around. Marta likewise looked up.

"Why, what's the matter?"

"But child, where did you get those plump arms of yours?"

The young girl blushed, and half-laughing, half-vexed, raised her hand and pulled down her sleeve a little.

"Come! will you begin now? See here, I did not tell you that you might stay to behave like this."

"Then I deserve the punishment of staying, though you should demand the opposite."

"Well, do what you please, but let me work in peace."

"I will let you work, but I must say it never entered into my calculations that the Señorita Marta had such arms. I knew that she was pretty, comely, round, and solid--but how could I suspect such a thing?... Come now, I tell you that no one would believe it without the evidence of his eyes."

The servants laughed. Marta went on industriously kneading her dough, making a gesture of resignation as one who has made up her mind to endure a jest to the end. Ricardo kept on:--

"And that, too, though I have heard Maria speak of them--but vaguely.... Her information wasn't definite. The best way in these matters, if one wants to know about a thing, is to see for himself.... Look here, lassie,[17] supposing one were to quarrel with you, I wouldn't answer for the consequences!... And the beauty of it is, that their strength doesn't injure their elegance; they are muscular but well-shaped; ... they taper gracefully down to the wrist, which is slender and dainty. The truth is, that all things considered, a girl only fourteen has no right to have such arms as those!"

Marta suspended her work and burst into a merry peal of laughter.

"What a plague you are, child! there's no resisting you!"

Then her face once more resumed the placid, grave expression which characterized it, and she resumed her work, plunging again and again her firm, rosy fists into the pliant dough. The paste kept taking different forms under the steady pressure of the girl's small but strong hands. Sometimes it made a thick, short roll or cylinder, which, little by little, as it was worked over the table, kept growing longer and slenderer; again, it assumed the fashion of a great ball, the roundness of which Marta brought carefully to greater and greater perfection, until she suddenly fell upon it with both hands and flattened it out; at other times it presented the appearance of a thin sheet taking up half of the surface of the table, and which kept spreading more and more, until she began to double it over with repeated folds as one does with a garment; again, she built it up like a pyramid on the slopes of which the graceful little baker bestowed soft pats, as though she were caressing it, but not hesitating fiercely to tear it in pieces in order to give it immediately some new and capricious figure. When it seemed to her that the paste was sufficiently kneaded, she cut it into a number of lumps with a knife, and taking a wooden rolling-pin, she began to shape them with great care. Ricardo asked timidly,--

"Will you let me help you, Martita?"

"You don't know how."

"You can tell me what to do, and under your direction it will go first-rate."

"Now, you flatter me! All right, I'm willing; but you must wash your hands first."

Nothing was left for Ricardo but to go and wash his hands.

"That's good. Now take this rolling-pin and flatten out this lump of dough till you make it into a thin, round piece."

The new baker applied himself to his work with ardor; with too great ardor, for the dough was sometimes rolled so extremely thin that it was nothing but holes. The servants looked on with broad smiles of admiration, while Marta kept gravely intent upon her task. In the kitchen the atmosphere was suffocating, as it was heated by the red-hot iron covers of the oven, and impregnated with the heavy odors of cooking viands, which disturb and revolt the stomach when it is surfeited, but excite and stimulate it when it is empty.

Ricardo could not keep his tongue still a single instant. While he was passing the rolling-pin over the dough with greater circumspection than if he had been engaged in preparing a magic philter, he did not cease to ask questions and make remarks of all sorts to Marta, principally in regard to the pie which they had undertaken to make: "How many eggs did you put in the flour? How much lard? Who taught you to make pies? How long does it have to stay in the oven?" etc., etc. Marta gave laconic answers, and did not lift her face to all his questions, allowing a vague smile of condescending superiority to hover over her lips.

"Aye! Marta, what would Manolito Lopez say, if he were to see us at this moment?"

"What has he to say? It's nothing to him," replied the girl, slightly blushing.

"Wouldn't he be jealous, to see us so near together?"

"Why?"

"Oh, I know! I know he's in love with you, according to what they say."

"Why do you wish to plague me so?"

"Lassie, everybody is talking about it; it's no invention of mine."

"Very well; then keep it up, as you say."

"I will, so far as I see it."

"Come, don't be foolish!"

Marta's tone in saying this showed some signs of vexation. It was evident that she did not quite relish the joke. Ricardo's ground for making it was slight enough, as is almost always the case with children; but it was true to a certain degree. Little urchins of fourteen or fifteen, called, in popular language, _pipiolos_, run after the small girls of the same age; and they establish, for the most part tacitly, certain relations with them which resemble or imitate the love affairs of their seniors. It is said, for example, among them that Fulanito[18] is Fulanita's sweetheart, without any reason why; and Fulanito, merely from this fact, without Fulanita meaning much to him, goes to wait for her, with other friends, at the schoolroom door, and follows her home, greatly to the vexation of the tending maid; at the little parties which are given from house to house he takes her out to dance more frequently than the others. If he be somewhat daring, he is apt to offer her candy in cones of gilt paper; and he passes in front of her house several times a day, when he begins to wear new clothes or a new hat; he manages, when he walks behind her, to speak loud and distinctly for her to hear, and plumes himself on his clever talk; and he is quick to roll up his sleeves for the most insignificant thing, so as to exhibit in her presence a boldness and courage which he would not have if she were absent; he spends the pennies which he possesses on pomade or scented oil, and comes to mass when she is present, his hair brushed and as shiny as a cat just out of the water; in the afternoon, when his heart is sore because she does not take any notice of him, he follows behind her with some of his friends, indulging in naughty words and stupid laughter; and sometimes, coming close up to her, he pulls her by the hair-ribbon, until, with these and other trickeries, he succeeds in making her cry.

Fulanita's conduct is generally of a piece. In reality she doesn't care a fig for Fulanito; but as they say he is her sweetheart, she does all she can to carry out the idea, and so she keeps turning her head to look for him when she comes out of school; at the German she selects him as a partner more times than the others; she hurries to the window when he passes, and blushes when they joke her about him. But these pseudo-affections are almost never lasting, and rarely become real. They begin silently, they live their day silently, and silently they pass away when the girl puts on long dresses. The reason for such fickleness is very obvious. Fulanito has as yet attained the age, not of love affairs, but of the gymnasium, _suspensos_, and sage cigars. Fulanita is already far more perfectly developed as far as the life of the heart is concerned, and in her inmost soul she has a profound scorn for Fulanito, who does not know how to descant on affinity and love, is incapable of kissing a fan fallen from the hand, and hasn't a sign of a mustache.

Of this sort, though with slight variations, was our Marta's friendship with Manolito Lopez. To the general causes which tend to wither and nip in the bud such predilections must be added in this case the very slight similarity of their characters. Manolito, though he had an expressive and even handsome face, was mischievous, obstreperous, quarrelsome, and saucy; one good quality was observable in him: he was not inclined to be spiteful. Marta was placid, taciturn, and reserved; the fault which they found with her at home was that she was somewhat obstinate. It was not possible, therefore, to have a more complete antithesis. If this had not been so, Marta would have come to love Manolito, for her temperament was opposed to change not only in the furniture of her room, but in the sentiments of her heart.

When they had finished moulding various thin covers of pastry, Marta went to work to put some of them on top of others in copper baking-dishes, which made the bottom of the pie. Then one of the maids put in the pork, neatly trimmed and cut into small bits. The lard, well seasoned with spices, exhaled a stimulating, appetizing odor, which made the mouth water. When once the bits were laid on the bottom crust in the most accurate order, the girl went to spreading new covers of pastry which she laid over the pork. Ricardo no longer helped her; he was evidently tired of it. But when it came to making the ornaments for the top, he once more hastened to offer his services, and he took great delight in designing in the dough a thousand kinds of mosaics, arabesques, and figures of every species that was ever seen. Marta put an end to such dilettante labors by taking the pastry from his hand, for he was never done. When the pie was made, the girl herself put it in the oven, and following a pious custom traditional in that part of the country, she made the sign of the cross over it, and repeated a Pater Noster so as to obtain a happy result.

"Do you know one thing, Martita?"

"What is that?"

"That kitchen odors and the labor on these pies have given me an abnormal appetite!"

"Really?"

"It's the honest truth!"

"Then see here; something to eat will cure it. Come with me."

And she drew him to the dining-room near by and seated him at the table. Then she took out of a sideboard a napkin, bread, wine, a plate of cold turkey, and a jar of preserves, and put them down one after the other with the carefulness and system which characterized all her movements.

"Eat, Señor Marqués, eat."

To call Ricardo "Señor Marqués" was one of the most audacious jests which Marta allowed herself to indulge in toward her future brother. It was not in accordance with her nature to make jokes and epigrams about any one. Those that occasionally came from her lips were meant to disguise a tenderness which her reserved nature prevented her from showing openly to any one, even to her own sister.

Ricardo proceeded to despatch a slice of turkey with all solemnity, occasionally washing it down with draughts of Valdepeñas, while the girl, smiling and happy, stood enjoying her friend's voracious appetite, and looking out to fill his glass with wine and change his plate when there was need.

"You are a fine woman, Martita," said Ricardo, with his mouth full. "You're worth your weight in gold, and certainly you would not weigh a little, judging by the signs which I won't mention for fear you would call me a bore. When I see Manolito Lopez, I shall tell him not to think of any other woman if he wants to get fat and plump; and that's what he very much needs. If you take such good care of me, what care you would take of him!--That's enough, that's enough, Martita! don't give me so much preserve. One would think that you wanted to give me dyspepsia here, on the sly.--This turkey is excellent; it deserves the honors which I have done it;--a little more wine, please!--"

Marta poured out the wine, and looked at him out of her great, calm eyes, in which gleamed an evanescent smile of comfortable satisfaction. It seemed as if it were she who was feasting.

"See here, lassie[19]! do me the favor to eat something too, because it grieves me to see you so abstemious. I should think you were being punished."

The girl was not hungry, and she refused to take the plate which Ricardo offered her. However, she cut a small piece of bread, and began to devour it solemnly with her little white teeth.

"I prophesy that it won't be long before you dispose of this saucer of preserve, Martita. The thing is to begin. The worst of it is, it's now twelve o'clock, and at dinner-time I shan't have any appetite.--Yet I don't know how far that's certain, for my stomach is a good one!--Martita, don't be foolish, but eat this preserve, which you will find appetizing."

While Ricardo was bringing his task of feasting and chattering to an end, Genoveva came into the dining-room, saying,--

"The Señorita Maria has a little headache and is resting in her room."

"I'll go to her," cried Marta, hurrying away.

"And I bring you this message from her, señorito," added the maid, handing him a note.

But seeing that the young man was about to break the seal, she said,--

"The señorita wanted you not to read it till after you had left the house."

"Very good," muttered Ricardo, somewhat disturbed.

And taking his hat, and without saying farewell to any one, he hurried home devoured by impatience, and tearing open the envelope with trembling hand, he read the following letter:--

* * * * *

"MI QUERIDÍSIMO RICARDO,--

"For some time I have been anxious to tell you a thought that has filled my mind, but I have not had the courage. I know your nature well: you are extremely impetuous, and thus many times, instead of reflecting on my words and trying to understand their meaning, you would flare up like gunpowder, spoil everything, and frighten me terribly, as on the evening when we celebrated mamma's fête-day. Accordingly, after much vacillation, I have decided to tell you by letter and not by word of mouth.

"The thought that disturbs me of late is to ask you to postpone our wedding still a little longer. Don't get angry, Ricardo mio, and read on calmly. I am sure that the first thought that will occur to your mind is that I don't love you. How mistaken you would be to think such a thing! If you could read in my soul, you would see that love holds my conscience in its sway, and this I deplore bitterly. But that is not the question now.

"Are you sure, Ricardo, that you and I are properly trained to enter upon a state which entails so many and such serious responsibilities? Have you thought well of what the sacrament of marriage means? Is there not in our hearts rather an unreflecting inclination, mixed, perhaps, with carnal impulses, than a serious desire to undertake an austere, religious life, becoming in a Christian family, educating our children in the fear of God and in the practice of virtue? If you reflect a little on how frivolous hitherto our love has been, and on the sins which we are constantly committing, you cannot but agree with me that two young people, so wanting in gravity and genuine virtue, are not authorized by God to bring up and direct a family. I should feel a great smiting of the conscience if I were married now (and you ought to feel the same), and I believe that God could not bless or make our union happy. If it is to be blessed, we must make ourselves worthy of celebrating it, by leaving forever behind us our frivolous, worldly manner of loving, for another, more lofty and spiritual, by refraining absolutely from certain earthly manifestations to which we are impelled by our great love, and by making preparations for it, during a few months at least, by a virtuous and devout life, by performing a few sacrifices and works of charity, and by constantly imploring God to illumine our minds, and give us power to fulfil the duties imposed upon us by the new state.

"There is an example in history which ought to encourage us greatly in doing what I propose. The beloved Saint Isabel of Hungary had been betrothed from early youth to the Duke Luis of Thuringen, but the nuptials were not celebrated until both reached the proper age. After the betrothal was celebrated, Isabel and Luis did not separate, but lived in the same palace, as though they had been brother and sister, until, by the will of God, they became husband and wife. The pious sentiments of the lovers, together with the austere education which was given them, made their affection always pure and upright, founding the unchangeable union of their hearts, not on the ephemeral sentiments of a purely human attraction, but on a common faith and the stern observance of all the virtues inculcated by this faith. Until they were united by the indissoluble bond of matrimony, they always called each other brother and sister; and even after they were married, they frequently used to apply this sweet name to each other.

"I confess, Ricardo, that the spectacle of those noble and holy young people has an unspeakable attraction for me. Love sanctified in such a way is a thousand times more beautiful, and bestows upon the heart purer and loftier pleasures. Why should we not follow, as far as possible, the steps of that illustrious husband and wife, the pattern of abnegation and tenderness, as well as of purity and fidelity? Why should you not imitate, my beloved Ricardo, the stern virtue of the young Duke of Thuringen, the nobleness and dignity of all his actions, the innocence and modesty of his soul, never found guilty of falsehood,--virtues which in no respect were opposed to the valor and boldness of which he always gave eminent proofs? For my part, I promise you to imitate, according to the measure of my feeble strength, the tenderness, the obedience, and the faithfulness of his saintly spouse Isabel, living subject to the law of God, within the affection which I profess for you.

"This is what I propose to you, and desire to do. Don't get angry, for God's sake, dear Ricardo; reflect over what I have just said, and you will see how right I am. Doubt not that I love you much, much,--I, who am, for the time being,

"Your sister,

"MARIA."