-Xxvii- · I

The person who showed the greatest grief at the loss of the election was Nucha. From the day of the defeat she failed even more than before, and her physical and moral dejection deepened. She rarely left her room, where she lived the slave of her little girl, bound to her day and night. At table, while she ate little and without appetite, she kept silence, and at times Julián, who never took his eyes off the young lady, would see her lips move, a common habit with persons possessed by a fixed idea, who talk to themselves without uttering a sound. Don Pedro, more sullen than ever, did not take the trouble to attempt any show of conversation. He chewed steadily, drank dryly, and kept his eyes fixed upon his plate or upon the ceiling beams; never upon his companions.

So shattered and wasted did the young lady appear to the chaplain that one day he ventured, overcoming inexplicable misgivings, to call Don Pedro aside, asking him in a broken voice whether it might not be well to send for the master of Juncal, that he might see...

“Are you mad?” Don Pedro replied, darting a contemptuous glance at him. “Send for Juncal... after the way he worked against me in the election? Máximo Juncal shall never cross the threshold of this house again.”

The chaplain made no reply, but a few days later, returning from Naya, he fell in with the doctor. The latter pulled up his nag and, without dismounting, answered Julián’s questions.

“‘It may be serious...’ She was left very weak from the childbirth, and required exquisite care... Nervous women recover bodily health when their minds are calmed and diverted... Look here, Julián, we should have to talk for six hours if I told you all I think of that unhappy young lady, and of that Pazos... Mum’s the word... A fine deputy you wanted to send to the Cortes... It would have been better if his parents had sent him to school...”

It may be serious... This above all stamped itself on Julián’s mind. Indeed it might be serious. And what means did he possess to ward off sickness and death? None whatever. He envied the doctors. He had faculties only to heal the spirit: and even these availed him nothing, since Nucha did not confess to him; and the very thought of her confessing, of seeing so beautiful a soul unveiled, troubled and confused him.

Many times had he thought of such a likelihood: any day Nucha might easily, from a need for relief and consolation, come to cast herself at his feet in the tribunal of penance and ask him for counsel, strength, and resignation. “And who am I,” Julián asked himself, “to guide a person like Señorita Marcelina? I have neither age, nor experience, nor sufficient wisdom; and what is worse, I lack virtue also, for I ought joyfully to accept all the young lady’s sufferings, believing that God sends them to try her, to increase her merits, to grant her a greater store of glory in the next world... and I am so wicked, so carnal, so blind, so inept, that I spend my life questioning the divine goodness because I see this poor lady amid passing adversities and tribulations... Yet it must not be so,” the chaplain resolved with an effort. “I must open my eyes, for to that end I have the light of faith, denied to unbelievers, to the impious, to those in mortal sin. If the young lady comes to ask me to help her bear her cross, let us teach her to embrace it lovingly. She must understand, and I too, what that cross signifies. By it alone one attains to the only true happiness. However happy the young lady might be here in this world, come, for how long and in what manner could she be so? Even though her husband should... esteem her as she deserves, and cherish her as the apple of his eye, would she thereby escape disappointments, sickness, old age, and death? And when the hour of death arrives, what does it matter or of what avail is it to have spent this perishable, contemptible little life in a little more mirth and tranquility?”

Julián always kept at hand a copy of the Imitation of Christ; it was the modest edition of the Religious Bookstore, in Father Nieremberg’s pure and admirable translation. In the frontispiece there was an engraving, very poor as a work of art, which afforded the chaplain great solace whenever he fixed his eyes upon it. It represented a hill, Calvary; and along the narrow path leading to the place of execution, Jesus was slowly mounting, bearing His cross upon His back, with His face turned towards a friar who yonder in the distance was hoisting another cross to his shoulder. Though the drawing was poor and the execution poorer, that engraving breathed a kind of melancholy resignation, well suited to the priest’s frame of mind. And after gazing at it long, he seemed to feel upon his shoulders an overwhelming yet exceedingly sweet burden, and a deep calm, as though he found himself—so he fancied—buried at the bottom of the sea, the water surrounding him on all sides without drowning him. Then he would read passages from that golden book, which penetrated his soul like red-hot iron in the flesh:

“Why fearest thou to take up the cross, whereby one goeth to the kingdom? In the cross is health, in the cross is life, in the cross is defence from foes, in the cross is infusion of sovereign sweetness, in the cross is strength of heart, in the cross is joy of spirit, in the cross is height of virtue, in the cross is perfection of sanctity... Take up therefore thy cross and follow Jesus... Behold, all consists in the cross, and all lies in dying; and there is no other way to life and true peace than the holy cross and continual mortification... Dispose and order all things as thou wilt, yet thou shalt ever find something to suffer, willingly or perforce; and so shalt thou ever find the cross, feeling bodily pain or sorrow of soul... When thou comest to the point where affliction is sweet and relishable for love of Christ, deem then that it is well with thee, for thou hast found paradise on earth...”

“When shall I reach this state of blessedness, Lord!” murmured Julián, placing a mark in the book. “He had heard that God grants what is asked mentally during the consecration of the host, and earnestly he prayed that his cross... no, the poor lady’s cross, might be sweet and pleasant to him, as Kempis said...”

Nucha always attended mass in the restored chapel, hearing it on her knees and leaving when Julián gave thanks. Without turning, Julián knew when she rose and the slight sound of her steps on the new floor. One morning he heard nothing. This simple fact broke his peace in prayer. Rising, he saw Nucha standing, finger on lips. Perucho, serving mass with notable ease, was putting out the candles with a long reed. Her look said eloquently:

“Let that boy go.”

The chaplain bade the acolyte withdraw.

He was slow to obey, lingering to fold the lavabo towel. At last he went, reluctant. The chapel smelled of flowers and fresh varnish; through windows came warm light, filtered by crimson taffeta; the painted saints seemed alive, and Nucha’s pale face took an artificial glow.

“Julián?” she asked in an imperious tone, strange in her.

“Señorita...” he replied in a low voice, out of respect for the holy place. His lips trembled and his hands grew cold, for he thought the terrible moment of confession had come.

“We must speak. And it must be here, perforce. Elsewhere there is never any lack of spies.”

“It is true, there is no lack.”

“Will you do what I ask of you?”

“You know that...”

“Whatever it may be?”

“I...”

His confusion grew: his heart beat with a dull thud. He leaned against the altar.

“It is necessary,” Nucha declared, not taking from him her eyes, which were more than wandering, already wild, “that you help me escape from here. From this house.”

“To... to... escape...” stammered Julián, bewildered.

“I want to go. Take my little girl. Return to my father. To achieve it we must keep secret. If they know here, they will lock me up. They will part me from the child. Kill her. I know for certain they will kill her.”

The tone, expression, and attitude were those of one not in full possession of her mental faculties; of a woman impelled by nervous excitement bordering upon frenzy.

“Señorita...” uttered the chaplain, no less agitated, “do not stand, do not stand... Sit upon this stool... Let us speak calmly... I know you have troubles, señorita... Patience and prudence are needed... Calm yourself...”

Nucha sank upon the bench. She breathed with difficulty, like one whose lungs function poorly. Her ears, whitish and standing out from her head, were translucent to the light. Having caught her breath, she spoke with a certain composure.

“Patience and prudence! I have as much as can fit in a woman. Here dissembling is beside the mark: you already know when the thorn first pierced me; from that day I resolved to find out the truth, and it did not cost me... great pains. That is, yes; it cost me a... a struggle... In short, that matters least. For myself I would not think of leaving, for I am not well and fancy that... I shall last but a little while... but... what of the child?”

“The child...”

“They are going to kill her, Julián, those... people. Do you not see that she is in their way? Do you not see it?”

“For God’s sake I beg you to calm yourself... Let us speak quietly, with reason...”

“I am weary of being calm!” exclaimed Nucha in vexation, like one hearing a piece of sheer folly. “I have prayed, I have pleaded... I have exhausted every means... I wait no longer, I can wait no more. I waited for those blessed elections to end, believing we should leave this place and then my fear would pass away... I am afraid in this house, you know it well, Julián; horribly afraid... Above all at night.”

In the sunlight filtered by the crimson curtains, Julián saw the young lady’s dilated pupils, her parted lips, her arched brows, the expression of mortal terror painted upon her countenance.