At last he could enjoy the solitude he longed for; he could think over the course of events, his own position and the state of his mind; he cast a glance at the past, and another at the future.
The painful struggle which he had carried on for so long with an ideal differing from his own was now over. He was free. But his freedom was tainted with sorrow, for it had been granted him by death; and he had been released from his fetters by a beautiful and melancholy being, whom he could by no means hate but only pity and respect. The obstacle that death had removed, and which dwelt not merely in his memory but in his heart, had won his tender sympathy by the mere fact of her pathetic end. It lent her the halo of innocence, and the radiance of an angel.
Still dwell as he might on this image—an interesting and touching one if not actually beloved—he could not help feeling an impulse of happiness. The future was before him. A door stood open—the door to a new life, where perhaps he might find the realisation of the dream he had indulged in so vainly in the past life which was now buried in a peaceful grave. The sense of recent loss made him afraid to contemplate the future and kept his fancy so far chastened that he did not rush into visions of rapturous days nor build castles in the air, either in the sunny regions of the probable, or the darker chaos of the purely imaginary. It was with real pain that he felt the homage of pious respect to the past chequered by visions of the future. But hope, like remorse, is so inevitably a part of the logic of events that it can be considered part and parcel of our conscience. We cannot lock the door on remorse when that intruder knocks and insists on admittance; and in the same way, we cannot turn away hope when it comes, walks in, calls us, invades us, takes possession, settles itself deliberately, and unrolls the enchanting panorama of happiness to come. No wilful blindness will avail to prevent our gazing on the horizon of life which is lighted up by hope; nay, there is not a moment, however painful, which is not linked with those hoped-for moments still remaining in store in the unknown future. Life is a constant anticipation of something remote and before us; indeed, nature herself has understood this law, for none of the superior creatures have eyes behind them.
Thus he sat debating and suffering, not choosing to let his thoughts wander whither they inevitably tended, and taking a morbid pleasure in trying to relink his broken chain. He felt a certain pride in setting aside every thought of his own advantage, however legitimate, and tried to force his fancy to a dignified indifference to the more pleasing aspect of the events of the night. But though the spirit has wondrous sails that bear it onward, and without which it could make no way, it no less needs that ballast which is called egoism. Egoism is indispensable; without it the sails would flap idly, and man would be the toy of the hurricane. With it, and bereft of sails, he would be no better than a hulk. The perfect vessel is one in which the sails and the ballast are rightly proportioned.
As he reflected thus, Leon Roch made up his mind that he could not be a hulk. Nay—he had just flung all his ballast overboard to sail, as swift as lightning, over the waters of a bright ideal when he heard a noise—a sound that made him thrill as the rope of the topmast vibrates before a rising storm—the rustle of a woman’s dress and the murmur of a sigh. He looked up and Pepa Fúcar stood before him.
Her aspect startled him, he could not ask her any questions. Her face was like that of a corpse that has risen from the grave in sheer terror of death. Her teeth chattered as though she were cold. Tragedy itself looked out of her eyes; in her hand she held a paper.
With a great effort Leon said:
“For God’s sake leave me in peace—my poor wife is dead.”
“And I ...” but she could not speak; she was trembling, as though the chill of the grave had fallen on her. At last she finished her sentence: