But he let his head fall, and only murmured,—
"My daughter! my daughter!"
And a flood of tears burst from his eyes.
CHAPTER XVI.
THE MARQUIS OF PEÑALTA'S DREAM.
THE transfer of the young artillery lieutenant, Ricardo de Peñalta, had not yet arrived. He had applied for it a fortnight before the Señorita de Elorza took the veil. A month had already passed since the great ceremony ... and nothing! The influential personages whom our friend had in Madrid, devoted to his interests, this time took little pains to fulfil his desires.
But why was our hero so anxious to leave Nieva? Be it said in honor of the truth, that when Ricardo asked for the transfer he was exceedingly desirous of turning his back forever upon those places where he had been so happy, and where he was going to be so wretched; but now, after the lapse of a month, the violence of his sorrow had somewhat subsided, and he was beginning to get accustomed to his misfortune. Still he continued to be greatly downcast; the whole town noticed it.
From the day when his betrothed had made him that horrible proposition, which he could not remember without being hot with anger, he understood that he should never be the master of Maria's heart. A secret and implacable voice kept ceaselessly whispering this to him. Thus the letter in which she announced her determination to enter the convent caused him no great surprise; for some time a rumor of this had been current in society. Yet, in spite of his best efforts, he could not help feeling a quick, keen pang and a melancholy that prostrated him completely. The more or less well-founded belief that the beloved woman does not return one's affection, is by no means the same thing as to see it confirmed by a material tangible fact. Not any longer did he retain the right to lose his temper and relieve his wrath by calling her perfidious and treacherous, as happens in the majority of cases. As the sincere Christian that he was, it became him to look with patience, even with pleasure (the letter said so distinctly!), upon that pious substitution of holy, sublime affections for those of earth, noble though they were. Maria was blameworthy in no respect,—absolutely in no respect; her conduct was worthy of all praise, and he saw how the whole city spontaneously and warmly rendered her their tribute. Possibly in this thought the young marquis found the only possible consolation; for the certain thing was, that the beautiful girl had not left him for any other man, but to follow the hard road that leads to heaven, for which, doubtless, it must require the doing of great violence to self. And in this violence our marquis took a little pride by thinking with delight, and at the same time with pain, on the strength which the new bride of Jesus must have employed, to tear up the roots of such a solid and long-established affection. But amid the beautiful foliage of these more or less consoling thoughts, a sad and cruel doubt often raised its odious head. Though Ricardo employed all expedients to get rid of such an idea, he could not help thinking very frequently that Maria had never professed for him a sincere and vehement love, like his for her; that she had been his betrothed through a compromise, through the influence of the peculiar circumstances in which both had found themselves in Nieva; that perhaps she had deceived herself in thinking that she loved him, since if she had really loved him, the idea of taking part in ridiculous conspiracies would never have entered into her head, still less that of proposing to him odious acts of treason; that Maria was a girl of much talent and great imagination, admirably fitted to shine in the world, or to undertake some religious or secular enterprise, of no matter how lofty a character, but incapable, perhaps from the very same reason, of delicacy of sentiments, of constancy, of the modest and humble abnegation which ought to characterize good wives and mothers. Finally Ricardo came to the conclusion that his mistress had more head than heart, or else he did not know what he was talking about.
And gradually under the influence of these doubts, which went almost as far as to be certainties, there sprang up in his mind a strong aversion to the amorous memories, which were a drawback to him. When he thought of the Maria of former times, so joyous, so lovely, so buoyant, his heart would melt within him, and the tears would flow; when his thought went back to the day on which, hidden behind the curtains, he saw her pass by his house unmoved and smiling, without so much as casting a glance at his windows, his heart was filled with a bitterness not free from rancor. And when he saw her in his imagination in the garb of a San Bernardin nun, entirely oblivious of the sweet scenes which had been the enchantment of his life, despising them, perhaps, and looking upon them with horror, as though they had been crimes, our young friend—may God forgive him the sin—began to look with hatred upon the bride of Jesus Christ. These doubts which constantly assaulted him were a genuine cautery for his passion, painful and cruel, like all cauteries, but very salutary in their effects.
He did not for an instant cease to frequent the Elorza mansion as before. There he found two human beings whom he pitied and who pitied him. Moreover, it was a habit of his to spend a few hours each day between those four walls, and not only a habit, but a debt of gratitude for the affection lavished upon him, and not only a debt, but also—and why should we not say so?—also a pleasure, a great pleasure, since he could not fail to find it so in being with such an accomplished gentleman as Don Mariano, who had showed that he loved him like a son, and with such a good and beautiful girl as Marta, whom he loved like a sister. Grief had still further limited the circle of his affections. In proportion as the recollection of Maria became less pleasant to him, the sweeter did he find the love of that family, and he clung to it as to the last plank in the shipwreck of his hopes. If he let this plank escape him, he would be left alone. Alone! alone! This word brought back to him that terrible night spent in the train, when he returned to Nieva after his mother's death. Cruel fate sounded it in his ears when he least expected it. Finally, while he stayed in Nieva, it did not ring with such a mournfully and disconsolate accent, because all that he saw and touched in his own house spoke to him of his mother's tenderness; and all that he found in the Elorza mansion, recalled Maria's love; but how would it be in the future?... What would the desert fields of Castilla say to him, across which the swift locomotive would carry him? What would the indifferent multitude in the streets of Madrid say to him?... Therefore Ricardo feared more than he desired the transfer which he had asked for with so much eagerness.
Every day when he reached the Elorza's, Martita asked him, "Has it come yet, Ricardo?"