“But have you not heard from time to time of the welfare of your Manuela?” I asked; “are you sure she is yet unmarried?” For it struck me that the young son of “an old and intimate friend” was a dangerous person to have paying court to one’s mistress during a two years’ absence; especially in Spain, where love matches are rather scouted. A story that one of Manuela’s countrywomen related to me of herself, recurring to me at the same time.
This lady had, early in life, formed an attachment to a young officer, whom poverty alone prevented her marrying. His regiment was ordered to Ceuta, and she remained at Malaga, consoling herself with the hope that brighter days would dawn upon them. Her friends laughed at the idea of such interminable constancy, especially as a most advantageous parti presented itself for her acceptance. The proposer—it is true—was neither so handsome nor so youthful as the exile, but then he was also an officer, and “in very good circumstances.” She could not forget her first love, however—indeed, she never could—and long turned a deaf ear to the tender whisperings of her new admirer; but, at length, her relations became urgent, as well as her lover; the mail boat from Ceuta gradually came to be looked for with less impatience; and, “por fin,” she observed, “como era Capitan por Capitan (!!),[197] I had no great objections to urge, and we were married!”
She confessed to me, however, that this exchange was not effected “without paying the difference,” as the treatment she experienced from her rich husband, caused her ever after to regret having given up her poor lover.
But to return to Antonio—“I have had but few opportunities of hearing from Manuela,” he replied, “for my native village is removed from any high road, and the close attendance required by my aged parents—my wound having incapacitated me from further military service—has been such, that I seldom could get as far as Jaen to make enquiries amongst the contrabandistas and others who visit the neighbourhood, of her place of residence; but about a month since I met an arriero of Arcos, who knew Don Fadrique well, and from him I learnt that Manuela is still unmarried, has lost all her beauty, is wasted to a shadow; and said to be suffering from some disease that baffles the skill of the most eminent physicians of the place.
“This intelligence has made me the more anxious to see her, and claim her promised hand, for no change in her personal appearance—even if the account be true—can alter the sentiments I entertain for her; but, at the same time, it has placed a weight upon my spirits which in vain I endeavour to throw off.
“The morning it was my good fortune to fall in with you, Caballeros, I had set out from my home to proceed to Ximena, whither I understand Manuela has been removed for change of air. For the term of my probation, though not yet expired, is fast drawing to a close, and having some business to transact with the military authorities at Granada and Malaga respecting my pension (of which not a maravedi has ever been paid), I have timed my movements so as to reach Ximena by the day on which I may again present myself to Manuela, and receive, I trust, the reward of my constancy.”
Antonio’s narrative was here brought to a conclusion, but ere he left us, I exacted the promise mentioned in the preceding chapter, that he would acquaint us with the result of Don Fadrique’s essay in experimental philosophy. Circumstances, however, occurred to prevent our meeting him at the place of appointment, and I had almost given up the hope of hearing more of Antonio and his love story, when, to my surprise, he one morning presented himself at my breakfast table at San Roque.
I saw, at the first glance, that the course of true love had not run smooth—he was pale and hagged—flurried, yet dispirited. “My good Antonio,” said I, unwilling to give utterance to a doubt of his fair one’s constancy, “I fear Don Fadrique has not proved to be a man of his word.”
“Perdon usted,” he replied—“he has been faithful to his word"—worse and worse, thought I—“And Manuela not less constant in her affection,” he continued; guessing at once the suspicion that flitted across my mind—“Alas! I could even wish it were not so, if all otherwise were well; but fate has ordered differently. A calamity has befallen Manuela; compared to which, death would be a mercy. She is in a state that is heart-rending to behold. Her sufferings are almost beyond the power of bearing. Oh, Caballero! it is fearful—it is awful to see her. She has the best advice that money can procure, but nothing can be done to give us a hope of her recovery.”
“Mad?” I exclaimed, with a shudder—“Oh, cursed love of riches....”