“Yes—I know, I know,” and he turned to look at his sister. “You are leaving Madrid?”
“Nay—how could we go and leave you?” said María with tears in her eyes.
“But your husband will not like to be detained.”
“We shall stay at home now,” said Leon sitting down with the group that had gathered round the newcomer. “María will not wish to part from a brother whom she has not seen for so long, nor can I wish that she should.”
“Nor would you like to leave her,” added the marquesa. “You are a model of kindness and amiability.—Perhaps we may all go together.”
“When Luis is better,” said Leon. “And meanwhile we will put off our journey.”
The same, or the following day, Leon found himself alone with his mother-in-law, and witnessed one of her most violent fits of grief, expressed in sighs and lamentations over her miserable fate, and remorseful protestations of economy and moderation for the future. The good lady shed a few tears, pressing her son-in-law’s hand with the fondest display of maternal affection and endless terms of endearment.
The Tellería family, she explained, were in financial difficulties; the illness of her youngest son required immediate and considerable outlay; she really could not find it in her heart to treat a party of physicians as her husband treated his back-stairs creditors—his extravagance indeed was positively scandalous; for her part she was weary of the life of superficial display which her husband and sons insisted on keeping up out of sheer pride, and in spite of all she could say. She was sick to death of balls and parties, and could only endure in silence the hidden misery and incessant care which made a hell of her wretched home. Oh! her education, her birth, her principles, her best feelings were all in revolt against the hideous farce; but she was weak—she was led by her affections, and even though she found no return, she loved the authors of her wretchedness—she could not break them of the habits they had acquired. However, now she was resolved to be firm and energetic; to put an end to the malpractices of her household; to check the marquis in his recklessness; to speak plainly—very plainly—to her sons, to institute a strict—an excessively strict régime; to live on their regular income, and to renounce delusive splendour and ridiculous pretentions in favour of a respectable sufficiency. Then she sat bathed in tears, praying God to spare her daughter such woes as had fallen on her parents’ hearth—a mercy which indeed He seemed disposed to grant, since he had blessed her with so exemplary a husband—a wise, a model husband—a man of a thousand—worthy to be a saint, if he were so happy as to win the absolution of the Church.
The same day, or the next, the marquis caught Leon and shut himself up with him in his study, where in pathetic accents, he unfolded the tale of his troubles and drew a picture of his present position with highly effective touches—grouping the shadows, and giving relief to the most immediately important feature: the sickness, namely, of the best and dearest of his children. This misfortune was the final blow to the house of Tellería, weak as it was already and tottering to ruin, though dressed out with tinsel, gilding and useless frippery. He—the illustrious but unfortunate speaker—must face a terrible problem, his honour as a public official and his dignity as the father of a family, were alike in jeopardy. The hardest thing was that the fault was not his but his wife’s; she was the instrument of the filtration—a word he greatly affected—the constant filtration which was draining away his fortune.—At the same time he was, he admitted, also to blame; he had liked to keep up an unnecessarily handsome appearance, he had owed it to his name, to his party, to his country—he had counted on the success of operations in the money-market, on the advancement and prosperity of his sons. Alas! in vain; he was deceived and disappointed. He could not wholly exonerate himself to be sure; he had been weak, foolishly weak with regard to the reckless luxury in which his wife had chosen to live; he ought never to have sanctioned with his presence all the luncheons, tea-drinkings, balls and routs which, on fixed days of the week had filled his house with turmoil, and gossip, with pretentiousness and vanity; he ought to have resisted—to have protested; no doubt of that. He had not done so, he had made himself her accomplice; he had been false to the sound conservative principles which were the pole-star and beacon of his life. But now he was determined to stop these abuses, to introduce a radical reform of his household, to insist on economy, to maintain domestic order, which was the basis of all virtue, public or private.