Marianela 28

Marianela 28

"She seems out of her mind."

 

"Does she know that I can see now?"

 

"I myself told her. But really I am sure she has lost her wits. She

says that I am the Holy Virgin and kisses my dress."

 

"That shows that you have produced the same impression on her as on

every one else. Nela is so sweet. Poor little girl! We must take care

of her, Florentina, and be kind to her--do not you think so?"

 

"She is ungrateful I am afraid," said Florentina sadly.

 

"No, never think so. Nela could not be ungrateful. She is a good

child--I am very fond of her. She must be found and brought here to

me."

 

"I will go."

 

"No--not you," said Pablo positively, taking his cousin's hand. "Your

duty, most undutiful cousin, is to take care of me. If Golfin does not

come soon to take off my bandage and put on my glasses, I shall do it

myself. I have not seen you since yesterday, and I cannot bear it--I

cannot bear it. Is Don Teodoro come?"

 

"He is down stairs with your father and mine. He will come up quite

soon. Have patience; you are as bad as a school-boy."

 

Pablo writhed with irritation.

 

"Light, light!" he cried. "It is a crime to keep me in the dark so

long. I cannot live like this--I shall die. I want what is the bread

of life to me; I want the use of my eyes. I have not seen you to-day,

cousin, and I am wild to see you. I am hungry, thirsty to see you.

Oh! thank God for real knowledge! Thank God for having created you,

sweetest of women, a combination of every beauty.--And yet, if after

having created beauty, God had not given us hearts to feel it, how

imperfect his work would have been! Light! light!..."

 

Teodoro came up and opened the gates of the outer world to him, filling

his soul with joy, and he passed a quiet day talking of a variety of

subjects. Not till the evening did his thoughts revert to that point

in his past life, which seemed to be diminishing and fading in the

distance, like vessels which on a clear day are lost on the horizon. It

was in the tone of a man who recalls some long past circumstance, that

Pablo asked: "Has not Nela made her appearance?"

 

Florentina replied that she had not, and they talked of other things.

 

In the course of the night, at a very late hour, Pablo heard the noise

of voices in the house. He fancied he heard those of Teodoro Golfin, of

Florentina, and of his father. But after that he slept quietly, though

haunted in his dreams by the images of all he had seen and the phantoms

of all he imagined. His dreams, which began tranquilly and smilingly,

afterwards became agitated and painful, for in some deep recess of

his soul, as though it were a vast cavern suddenly lighted up, rose

a medley array of the beautiful and the hideous forms of the outside

world--of passions awakened and memories buried--convulsing his whole

soul. The following day, as Golfin had promised, he left his room to

move about the house.

 

 

 

 

CHAPTER XXI.

 

EYES THAT KILL.

 

 

The room which had been assigned to Florentina at Aldeacorba was the

pleasantest in the house. No one had used it since the death of Pablo's

mother; but Don Francisco, deeming his niece worthy to be lodged

there, had the room neatly arranged and added some little elegancies

which had been quite unknown to it in his wife's lifetime. The balcony

looked southwards and over the garden, so that the room was always

flooded with light and perfume, and cheered by the happy song of birds.

Florentina herself, during her few days' stay, had given it the stamp,

so to speak, of her own individuality; all sorts of small properties

and trifles betrayed the nature of the woman who lived in it, as you

may know a bird by its nest. If there are some persons who would make a

hell of a palace, so there are others who have only to enter a hovel to

make it a Paradise.

 

It was that very stormy day--I say that day, for I cannot name the

date; I only know that it was a day. It had rained all the morning;

then the sky had cleared, and at last, high above the misty whiteness

of the lower atmosphere, a rainbow threw its glorious arch. One end

rested on the oaks of Ficóbriga, close to the sea, and the other on

the woods of Saldeoro. Supreme in its simplicity the rainbow can be

compared to nothing else, any more than an absolutely ideal and typical

form can be. A rainbow is the epitome, the alpha and omega, of visible

color.

 

Florentina was in her room, not threading beads, nor embroidering

satin with gold thread, but cutting out garments from patterns made

of newspaper. She was squatting on the floor, in the attitudes of a

fidgetty child at play; now sitting on her heels, now on all fours, and

plying the scissors without a moment's respite. By her side was a heap

of pieces of woollen stuff, calico, cotton print, and other materials

that she had been, that very morning, to buy at Villamojada, in spite

of wind and weather; and snipping here, and cutting there, she was fast

evolving sleeves, skirts, and bodies. They were not perhaps models of

dressmaking, nor was the exactitude of the patterns to be entirely

relied on, for they also were of her own devising; however, she would

have been the first to acknowledge their shortcomings, and she hoped

that good-will might conduce to a happy result. Her worthy father had

said to her, as he saw her sitting to work:

 

"Bless me, child! one would think there were no dressmakers in the

world. You cannot imagine how it annoys me to see a young lady of good

position crawling about on the floor with shears in her hands.--It

is not at all the right thing. I cannot bear that you should work to

clothe yourself even, and am I to submit to see you working for others?

What are dressmakers for--heh? What are dressmakers for?"

 

"A dressmaker would do it much better than I shall," replied Florentina

laughing. "But then you see it would not be my doing, Papa; and to do

it myself is the very thing I most want."

 

He left her to her own devices; but not alone, for in the middle of the

alcove, between the bed and the wardrobe, stood an old-fashioned sofa

and on the sofa lay two blankets, and at one end, on a pile of pillows,

lay a weary little head. The face was haggard and colorless--asleep.

Sunk rather, in an uneasy lethargy, broken now and again by violent

starting and terrors. However, a calmer state had supervened by

mid-day, when Florentina's father came into the room again, followed by

Golfin. The surgeon went up to the sofa and leaned over Nela, watching

her face.

 

"She seems to be sleeping more quietly now," he said: "We must have no

noise."

 

"What do you think of my daughter?" said Don Manuel, laughing. "Do you

see all the trouble she is taking. Now be quite impartial, Don Teodoro:

Is there any reason why she should vex me? Honestly, when there is

no necessity for taking so much trouble, why should she do so? What

pleasure can it be to me to see my daughter wasting all I give her

for pin-money; wasting it on others; and besides this mania for low

occupations--for low occupations...."

 

"Let her please herself," replied Golfin, looking down admiringly at

the girl. "Every young lady has her own way of wasting her pin-money."

 

"And I am not to object if her charity brings her to destitution, to

bankruptcy!" exclaimed Don Manuel, marching up and down the room in

pompous indignation, with his hands in his pockets. "Besides, is there

no better method of charity than this? She wished to show her gratitude

to God for my nephew's recovery--well and good--very proper, a very

Christian feeling. But we shall see, we shall see."

 

He stopped in front of Nela and looked at her kindly.

 

"Now, would it not have been better," he said, "if, instead of

bringing this poor girl into the house, my daughter had organized

one of those grand charitable affairs, which are the fashion even at

court, and which give all the best people in society an opportunity

of displaying their good feeling? Why did you not think of holding a

lottery? We could easily have sold any number of tickets among our

friends, and have collected a handsome sum of money to give away to

charitable asylums. Why, you might have got up an association among

the gentry of Villamojada and the neighborhood, or have invited all

our acquaintance at Santa Irene de Campó to join you, and have held

meetings and collected a great deal of money.--Nay, why not have got

up a bull-fight? I would have undertaken to provide the beasts and the

men.--Or amateur theatricals?--Last night Doña Sofía and I were talking

of that very thing. Learn from her, my dear, learn from her. The poor

owe more to her than I can tell you. There are all the families who

live by the employment they get in working the lotteries--there are all

the professionals and subordinates who make money by the theatrical

performances! Oh! my dear, the paupers in the workhouse are not the

only poor! Sofía told me that they made a little fortune out of the

masked balls they gave this winter. A good deal of it was spent, of

course, in gas, in renting the theatre, in service, and so forth--still

there was a morsel of bread left for the poor after all.--But, if you

do not believe me, read the statistics, child--read the statistics."

 

Florentina laughed, and found no better answer than to repeat the

surgeon's apology for her:

 

"Every young lady has her own way of wasting her pin-money."

 

"But Don Teodoro," remonstrated Don Manuel, in great disgust: "You must

admit that no one else does it as my daughter does."

 

"I quite admit it," said Golfin with meaning, and looking at the girl:

"No one is like Florentina."

 

"And yet--with all her faults," said the father, drawing her to him:

"With all her faults, I love her better than my life. This little hussy

is worth her weight in gold.--Come, tell me, which do you like best, Aldeacorba de Suso, or Santa Irene de Campó?"