-Xxiv- · II

We have the country in our grip like this.”

From the moment the news spread, the young master began to feel flattered by the kind of homage which an infinity of persons came to pay him—all the gentry of the surrounding country, the almost unanimous clergy, and the numerous adherents and partisans of Barbacana, headed by the lawyer himself. Don Pedro’s chest swelled with pride. He well understood that Primitivo was behind the scenes; but, after all, he was the one who was incensed. During those days he displayed great cordiality and an excellent, hearty humour. He caressed his daughter, and ordered a new embroidered dress to be put on her so that the young ladies of Molende might see her so attired, who proposed to contribute not less than a hundred votes to the triumph of the representative of the mountain aristocracy. He too—for novice candidates have their period of courtship in which they woo the deputyship as they would woo a girl, shave with care, and seek to show off their physical advantages—cared somewhat more for his person, lamentably neglected since the return to the Pazos; and as he was then in the zenith of his beauty, masculine rather than manly, the electoral wire-pullers took pride in sending so handsome a fellow to Congress. In those days political passion made capital even out of stature, the colour of hair, and age.

Ever since the pot began to boil, there had been an open table at the Pazos: Filomena and Sabel were seen running through the salons, bearing and bringing trays with brown sherry and sponge-cakes; the clinking of teaspoons in coffee-cups and the clash of glasses were heard. Below, in the kitchen, Primitivo regaled his followers with wine from the Borde, large dishes of salt cod, and great platters of cabbage and pork. Frequently both tables joined together, the one below and the one above, and they argued, and laughed, and told broad stories, and flayed with a pickaxe—for the scalpel cannot be named—Trampeta and those of his faction, stirring up amid bursts of laughter, cigars, and exclamations the immense detritus of frauds great and small on which the fortune of the town-clerk of Cebre rested.

“This time,” said the priest of Boán, a tough and resolute old man who shot fire from his eyes and enjoyed the reputation of being the best shot in the district after Primitivo, “this time we will floor them, by Jove!”

Nucha did not attend the meetings of the committee. She appeared only when the visitors were such as to require it; she saw to supplying the things indispensable for the perpetual feast, but fled from it. Nor did Julián go down to the assemblies except rarely, and in them scarcely parted his lips, earning thereby the priest of Ulloa’s confirmation in his opinion that spruce chaplains are good for nothing of any use. Nevertheless, as soon as the committee discovered that Julián wrote a pretty running hand and had a fairly correct orthography, they laid hands upon him for letters of importance. In addition, another occupation fell to him.

It happened that the Archpriest of Loiro, who had known and had much to do with Doña Micaela, Don Pedro’s mother, wished to see the whole house again, and also the chapel, where he had sometimes said Mass during the lifetime of the deceased lady, whom God rest. Don Pedro showed it to him with bad grace, and the Archpriest was scandalized on entering. The chapel was almost in ruins: the rain ran down the reredos; the vestments of the images seemed like rags; everything breathed the utmost neglect, the chill and peculiar sadness of forsaken churches. Julián was already weary of dropping hints to the Marquis concerning the deplorable state of the chapel, without obtaining any result; but the astonishment and lamentations of the Archpriest grazed the pride of the master of Ulloa, and he considered that it would produce a good effect at such a time to spruce it up and repair it a little. It was retiled with considerable speed, and with equal haste a painter, summoned from Orense, painted and gilded the reredos and the side altars, so that the chapel seemed quite another place, and Don Pedro showed it with pride to the priests, to the young squires, and to the Barbacanist wire-pullers. All that was now lacking was to clothe the saints decently and mend the ornaments and altar-cloths. Of this task Nucha took charge, under Julián’s direction. For this reason, taking refuge in the solitary chapel, the uproar of the electoral club did not reach them. Between the chaplain and the lady they stripped Saint Peter, combed the curls of the Immaculate Conception, bordered the robe of Saint Anthony, and scrubbed the halo of the Infant Jesus. Even the box for the souls in Purgatory was carefully washed and freshly varnished, and the souls in their nakedness, lanky, agonized, surrounded by red-ochre flames, emerged into the light in all their edifying ugliness. Such an occupation was sweet indeed to Julián: the hours passed unheeded in that quiet precinct, which smelt of fresh paint and of water-flags brought by Nucha to adorn the altars; while he fixed a silver-paper leaf upon a wire stem or passed a damp cloth over the glass of a shrine, he had no need to speak: an inward, peaceful satisfaction filled his soul. At times Nucha did no more than direct the work, seated in a low chair with her baby in her arms (she would not have her separated from her for an instant). Julián worked for two: he had a ladder and climbed to the highest part of the reredos. He dared not ask anything concerning private matters, nor ascertain whether the lady had had a decisive conversation with her husband regarding Sabel; but he noticed her dejected air, her darkened eyelids, the frequent sighing of the wife, and drew from these indications the natural conclusion. Other symptoms he perceived which heated his imagination, giving him no little food for thought. Nucha had displayed for some time past a vehement intensification of maternal affection. Scarcely was she separated from the little girl than, restless and uneasy, she would go in search of her to see what was happening to her. On one occasion, not finding her where she expected, she began to utter heart-rending cries, exclaiming: “They are stealing her from me! They are stealing her from me!” Fortunately, the nurse was already approaching, carrying the baby in her arms. At times she kissed her with such frenzy that the child burst into tears. At others she would remain spellbound, gazing upon her with a sweet and ineffable smile, and then Julián always remembered the images of the Virgin Mother, marveling at her miraculous maternity. But the moments of tranquil love were brief, and those of sudden alarm and sorrowful tenderness continuous. She would not allow Perucho to come near. Her countenance altered on catching sight of the boy; and he, creeping upon the ground, forgetting his mischievous pranks, his thefts, his liking for the stable, would lie in wait at the entrance of the chapel to see the baby come out and make a thousand grimaces at her, which she repaid with cherubic laughter, with frantic glee, with the impulse of her whole little body projected forward, eager to spring from the nurse’s arms into those of Perucho.

One day Julián noticed in Nucha something graver still: not merely an expression of melancholy, but a profound physical and moral dejection. Her eyes were red and swollen, as though from having wept for a long time together; her voice was faint and weary; her lips were dry, parched by fever and lack of sleep. There one saw no longer the thorn of grief slowly embedding itself, but the dagger plunged home to the hilt. Such a spectacle put an end to the chaplain’s prudence.

“You are ill, madam. Something has happened to you today.”

Nucha shook her head, trying to smile.

“There is nothing the matter with me.”

The sorrowful and weakened tone of her voice gave the lie to her words.

“For God’s sake, madam, do not tell me no... Why, I see it! Señorita Marcelina... Saint Julian, my patron, help me! That I should be able to serve you in nothing, to offer you neither help nor comfort! I am a humble, useless person; but in goodwill, madam, I am great as a mountain. I wish, I tell you from my heart, that you would command me, that you would command me!”

He uttered these protests brandishing a rag smeared with chalk against the altar-cards, whose metal border he was polishing vigorously without looking at it.

Nucha raised her eyes, and in them flashed an instantaneous beam, an impulse to cry out, to complain, to ask for aid... Instantly the flame went out, and slightly shrugging her shoulders, the lady repeated:

“There is nothing the matter with me, Julián.”

Upon the floor stood a basket full of hydrangeas and green boughs destined for the adornment of the vases; Nucha began to arrange them with the skill and graceful delicacy she displayed in the performance of all her household duties. Julián, between enchanted and distressed, followed with his eyes the arrangement of the blue flowers in the earthenware jars, the movement of her thin hands among the green leaves. He noticed that upon them fell a drop of water, heavy, clear, not proceeding from the moisture of the dew that still bathed the hydrangeas. And almost at the same moment he perceived something else that froze his blood with horror: upon the wrists of the lady of Moscoso was visible a circular mark, bruised, dark... With sudden lucidity the chaplain went back two years, heard once more the groans of a woman beaten with a gun-butt, remembered the kitchen, the furious man... Completely beside himself, he dropped the altar-cards and took Nucha’s hands to convince himself that, in truth, the sinister mark existed...

At that moment many persons entered by the door of the chapel: the young ladies of Molende, the judge of Cebre, the priest of Ulloa, conducted by Don Pedro, who brought them thither with the object of having them admire the works of restoration. Nucha turned hastily round; Julián, bewildered, answered stammering to the greeting of the young ladies. Primitivo, who brought up the rear, fixed upon him his direct and searching gaze.