“Here she is!” she said with pride. “You see I have had to carry her.”

She was quite out of breath and could scarcely speak.

The poor little child, sleepy and cross, allowed Leon to take her in his arms and laid her head on his shoulder only to fall asleep again.

“Have you nothing to say to him?” said Pepa, caressing one of her little hands. “Mona, my pretty one, tell him what I said to you.”

The little one shut her eyes, murmured a few words and gave herself up to sleep, without a fear or a care, on the very brink of the gulf that yawned at her deluded mother’s feet.

“She is asleep,” said Leon gently drawing the curly head to a more comfortable position on his shoulder. “We must talk very softly, since the force of circumstances compels us to meet and to speak.”

“We cannot stay here: we should be overheard from the corridor,” said Pepa taking him by the hand. “Besides, I must show you something which is in another part of the house. Come with me.”

He obeyed her. Pepa opened the door into the museum. There was a candle which she lighted; she led the way through a room full of old pictures, into a second and a third one, Leon carrying Monina, followed her without a word. At last he saw where he was.

“Here we shall not be disturbed by intruders, or by that mob of simpletons who have invaded the house,” she said.

They went into the very room where Monina had lain ill with the croup. A woman was there prepared to take Pepa’s orders; she was the wife of one of the men about the place whom Pepa could trust, and as her own maids were at Madrid, she had got this woman to attend to Mona, who was at once put to bed. Teresa sat down by the bed, strictly enjoined to call out if any one came into the room; then Pepa led Leon into the next room.

“This is my own room,” she said, “no one can hear us here. And now for my secret. Sit down. Mercy how pale you are!—And I?”

“You are pale, too,” said Leon sitting down wearily.

“We reflect each other,” she said, trying to sweeten by a slight jest the gall they both had to drink. Leon was in no mood to notice the elegance of the bedroom, in which the magnificence of the decorations was such as, in the days of faith, was lavished on chapels and altars. He paid no heed to the handsome tables and wardrobes of ebony inlaid with marbles, to the monumental bed, also of ebony, which, with its vast spread of mattresses and pillows, covered with some curious dark-hued cloth of gold, looked singularly like a catafalque; he did not glance at the religious pictures in their silver frames—some like those that his wife had loved—nor at the elegant lamp that had just been lighted and shed a discreet and moon-like light in the room. At any other time its splendour would have attracted his attention, but not now.

“Your secret? What is your secret?” he said impatiently.

“My secret,” repeated Pepa sadly, “it is that we will fly, fly—you have only to consent, and we will go at once—we three, without being seen by a soul.”

“Fly! What mad folly!” he exclaimed, striking his forehead with his hand. “And at such a moment! Your conscience, my own, our very love itself rises up in protest against such an idea. Can you forget what has this moment taken place under this roof?—Good Heavens! You expect me to be devoid of the respect and consideration due to the dead! You ask me, when these hands have scarcely closed her eyes—! What should I be if I could consent! I should deserve to fall even lower than those calumniators who are so ready to call me MarÍa’s murderer.—I cannot conceive that you could love me if you should see me suddenly fall into such depths of baseness, if I were capable of anything so hideously iniquitous and immoral.”

Every word was a twist to the rope that was strangling the hapless Pepa. They both were silent for some time, without looking at each other. Suddenly she laid her hand on his arm, gazing at him with haggard eyes, and said in a voice he never before had heard from her:

“Very well—then I will go to my husband.”

“What! What do you mean?”

“There is nothing for it but to submit to him. Can I put it more plainly. Either I fly with you, or I go into the wild beast’s cage.” Leon felt an internal shock; his soul seemed to leap up within him, to bound from its central seat.

“Plainer still?” she went on, going close up to him and leaning over him so that he might mark the angry glare of her small eyes. “Gustavo can give you the fullest details. Gustavo came to Papa this morning to explain to him my husband’s claims. Federico is his client; the creature has entrusted the defense of his rights to that man.”

“Now I understand why he threatened me with some mysterious punishment.—And were you present at his interview with your father?”

“Yes.—My father had just been telling me that it was this resurrection of the enemy that had been troubling him so much—he had heard that Federico had returned. Pilar told him last night that he was here.—The shock had quite taken away my breath, when in came the pompous lawyer. He came, he said, as the friend of both parties, and most anxious to compromise matters rather than bring them into court. The hypocrite! His roundabout speeches gave us the sensation of the jarring of a machine that wants oiling, which tortures one’s nerves and makes one’s head ache.... My father and he went on for ever so long, beating about the bush with high-flown phrases that made me furious. I should have turned the lawyer out of the house. But you can imagine his ponderous emphasis and the complacent twaddle with which he tormented me—and after talking for an age, he explained that he had already drawn up a statement of the case.”

Pepa paused to take breath and recruit her moral energies, of which she seemed to have an inexhaustible supply.

“My father,” she went on, “put forward a great many arguments and considerations. I said that the man who was brave enough to take my child from me, might come and drag her out of my arms. I believe that in my indignation I said very rude things to Gustavo. He apologized for his interference, alleging that he was merely an agent. All he wished was that we should come to an agreement, that the best course would be a friendly compromise, so as not to give rise to a scandal. I tried to defend myself against the horrible insinuations as to my own character, but an uneasy conscience checked me; I blundered and hesitated, and in trying to prove myself innocent I believe I did the very reverse.”

“And what more did the raving moralist say?”

“He went on for about half an hour quoting laws,” said Pepa, again trying to infuse a drop of humour in her bitter cup. “He began with Deuteronomy, went on to the Germans and Tacitus, and then referred to various modern authorities; finally, thinking he had not bored us enough, he quoted sections, chapters, schedules—what not? I really was amused as I listened to him....”

“You were amused?”

“Yes,—I thought what fun it would be to put him in the middle of our big pond and let him declaim to the frogs and fishes.—He was extremely tedious, telling me in the most elaborate and polite terms that the law was entirely on his client’s side, and that nothing could be easier than to prove me guilty. He has plenty of witnesses.”

“Witnesses? To what? Oh! I do not believe they can prove anything in spite of his malice. But they can calumniate you, disgrace you, drag your name and character in the mire; and you may lose your child when she has reached the age prescribed by law. If we fly we shall only be helping them to prove their case, and then you would be sure to lose the child.”

“But if we went a long way off?”

“Do not take a panic. Do not think of flight, which would condemn you unheard. While he brings an action against you, you must invoke the intervention of the law, to prevent him from exercising his paternal authority, on the ground of his extravagance, of misappropriation of moneys, forgery—a whole catalogue of crimes that it will be easy to prove if your father will support you.”

“I see what you mean. But you are under a delusion. You do not know the worst.”

“What is that?”

“You think, no doubt, that my father warmly took my part?”

“Of course.”

“But you are mistaken. Alas for me—and for you, too, dear friend of my soul—we are alone and undefended; everything, every one, is against us: religion, laws, relations—the good and the evil alike—the whole world. When the great Gustavo enlarged on the legal advantage his client had over me I flew into a rage—still, I controlled myself to say that Federico could not insist on exercising paternal authority, and that if he was determined on a quarrel I would accuse him of the things you know of. My father listened to all this very calmly; I saw him ready to yield to all sorts of odious compromises.... He stuttered and stammered, and made speeches that turned my heart cold: ‘My daughter will be reasonable—we must all make some sacrifice—I, if Federico will meet me half way—well, we must see—perhaps we can do everything he wishes—the first point is to avoid a scandal.’—And this point of avoiding a scandal, which he recurred to at least twenty times, showed me that he is not prepared to defend me as I should wish.—A compromise! And with what a man! Good God! Then he talked of coming to terms with Federico’s uncles, two very worthy men whom you know; one is a judge in the supreme court and the other president of the examining body—What will come of it all? What do you think of it—what can you say to it?”

“That if your father deserts you, you must fight alone.”

“Just so, and I will fight alone. Thank you for that. You restore my courage which my father crushes entirely with his extraordinary antipathy to ‘exaggeration,’” exclaimed Pepa with eager vehemence. ”If when you know what my weapons are!—It was to show you those that I brought you here. You shall see.”

In one corner of the room Leon observed an inlaid cabinet which Pepa now pointed to; it was not very large, of elegant workmanship, but evidently solidly constructed. She went up to this bureau, and opening the outer doors revealed a whole series of smaller doors, pigeon-holes and drawers. She touched a spring and a secret division flew open.

“This part of the cabinet,” she said with a smile, “is the Ark of sorrows.—Now, do you know that?”

“It is a letter of mine.”

“You wrote it to me when you were at college, preparing for the School of Mines.... Read it and meditate on what you wrote to me then: ‘That you were madly in love with me....’ You may laugh now, if you can, at your youthful folly.—Why did you not treasure up my letters as I did yours? I did not say that my love was a madness, but it filled my soul and moulded my nature, as everything does that is an eternal part of it.—And this; do you know this?”

“It is a tie-pin,” he said taking it up. “It was mine.”

“Yes—you dropped it in our house one day when you came to dinner. You were engaged then to that poor soul, but I still hoped you would not marry her.—I found it lying on the carpet and I kept it.—And these flowers?”

“They are some camellias I gave you once on your fÊte day—San JosÉ.”

“Yes, and the next evening you came to see me in my box and I saw you looking with the greatest interest at....”

“Poor flowers!—I did not think to see them again, or that they could speak to me as they do now, reminding me of all the feelings and dreams of my life. Do you know they are not dried up as I should have expected them to be after such a length of time?”

“My kisses have embalmed them and kept them fresh—kisses that I have given them so often!—But we must not delay. Give me all that.”

She replaced the objects in their little nook, with as reverent a touch as though they had been the most precious relics.

“Stay there in your melancholy little sleep, poor little treasures,” she said. Then she went on: “Now that you have seen the Ark of Sorrows I will show you the Chamber of Horrors!”

She opened a concealed drawer and took out a packet of papers tied together with red tape, like lawyers’ letters. Leon took it, understanding what it must contain, and they sat down to examine it.

“Here,” said Pepa with a shudder, at the sight of this record of disgrace, “here is the evidence of the martyrdom I have suffered as the wife of that reprobate: vile secrets that he confided to me under pressure of circumstances, when he wanted money. Every page is the record of some act of villainy that I concealed with the greatest care; the evidence of crimes that I succeeded in frustrating, or which remained hidden among the rubbish of some government office. Look at them, and you will see that I have ample means of proving that my husband is disqualified not merely for exercising paternal rights, but even for holding a place in anything like decent society.”

Leon looked through the packet with considerable curiosity, glancing over some things, and reading others with care. There were letters to and from well-known firms, private contracts, memoranda, accounts, papers with government seals, pages which had evidently been extracted from important documents, and a judicial decision which had obviously been signed under a false impression or in a moment of surprise.—When he had examined them all, he returned the packet to Pepa.

“Burn it,” he said.

“What?” she exclaimed, holding out her hand, but not taking it in her astonishment. “Shall I find them of no use?”

“No,” said Leon.

“How is that? Can I do nothing with them?”

“You can certainly—but....”

“Well?”

“In such painful circumstances it is best to speak quite plainly.—We owe each other the truth, though it may crush the being we love best in the world.”

“I do not understand.”

“Burn all this.”

“Why?”

“Burn it,—because you must not use it. It is a two-edged sword which will wound you when you use it. Forgive my entire frankness; with this in your hand you could triumphantly attack your husband. Under the feeblest rule of justice there is enough here to throw a man into prison.—But if you achieve that the wretch would meet his fate in good company....”

“In good company?”

“The fact is that, in Spain, men of a certain stamp are never put into prison even if they deserve it. This horrible revelation might easily heap disgrace....”

“On others?”

“Yes, and on one whom you truly love and could not bear to injure. Burn them all, Pepa, for God’s sake.” The poor woman pressed her hand tightly to her eyes to check her tears. But with a fresh flash of her unquenchable spirit, she took up the packet and replaced it in the Chamber of Horrors, which she locked, saying:

“I will burn them at another time.” Then turning to Leon she said in a low voice:

“Then I can do nothing legally to incapacitate my husband?”

“Nothing.”

“Is it impossible that I should take legal measures against him?”

“Impossible. I understand now your father’s hesitancy, his weak submission, which is neither more nor less than fear—the fear of going to law with an enemy who has been his accomplice. It is altogether out of the question, my dearest.”

“Quite, quite.—Why should we try to find crooked ways of escape? My friend, my lover—husband—all in all, the only soul to which my soul is kin, dare as much as I can dare!” she exclaimed with that fervid courage which sometimes made her so beautiful. “The straight and easy way lies before us, the only way: Flight. The carriage is waiting; there is nothing to stop us, we want nothing. You are rich—I am even richer—everything favours us, urges us to act....”

“Impossible! Madness!” said Leon gloomily.

“Madness? It seems so, I admit, but it is not mad really.—It seems monstrous and scandalous, and yet to me—knowing the danger and knowing the foe we have to deal with it is perfectly natural. Do you suppose I would propose such a thing to you if it were not necessary? You do not know, you do not see that I and Monina and you are in imminent danger. I dread some insult—a duel—a murder.—Every moment is precious. He respects nothing. I expect every instant to see him come in....”

“No, and again no,” repeated Leon with a determination that was almost cruel.

Pepa, who with all her temerity was still under his dominion, dared no longer protest against this resolute pride, and insist on taking the only path to happiness that lay open to her. She was afraid that her obstinacy might provoke further difficulties, and she stood looking at the Sphinx, hoping that a solution of the problem might suggest itself, instead of that which to her looked so easy. At length, tired of waiting, she said:

“Then if everything is impossible I must do as my father desires me, and receive the wretch with open arms.”

“You, in the power of that brute!” exclaimed Leon; the cord, stretched to the utmost, snapped asunder. “Before that can happen I must have lost every drop of blood in my body.”

“Well, if the monster can be gorged with the Code,” said Pepa sarcastically, “I will fling my child to him and come to live with you.”

“Part with the child?”

“You see,—that is still more impossible. Whichever way I turn I see nothing but impossibilities.”

“Nay, there is one point,” said Leon meditating, “from which we can look and see something besides the impossible.”

“And where is it?”

“You shall know in good time; but first I must talk to your father, and to your husband.”

“You?”

“Yes. I will speak with him—or with his uncles who are honourable and respectable men. Can you imagine no way in which the matter may be settled without flying, or going to law?”

“By my going to him?”

“Without even that.”

“I know of none.”

“But I do.”

“Then you know of some way of working miracles.—No, no miracle will do here. The only real miracle is flight.”

“No.”

“Then we must fight it; we will fight him together, you and I.”

“You and I? Then we should lose, and your child would be taken from you without fail.”

“Well then; as you close every way of escape, open another; it is the least you can do.”

“To-morrow!” said Leon sadly and looking at the floor: “I will open the only way there is.”

“To-morrow!” cried Pepa with a gesture of indignant impatience, and then relapsing into dejection as a glowing cinder suddenly becomes mere ashes. “Your to-morrows kill me!”

“Then you insist on the idea of flying?”

“I insist, because every minute you stay here, that I and my child stay here, but increases the peril for all of us. This night, which to you is one of mourning, is the turning point of my fate. He is capable—how can I tell! I fear the worst and tremble at every sound. I am so miserably afraid.—I know that if he heard of your being here, he would come and insult you,—fancy your fighting with him!—I am afraid of his insulting her, of his coming before me face to face. He always hated you.... I am afraid even that he might assassinate you.—I feel as though every conceivable horror were closing round me—I seem to see blood.—And it would be so easy now to step out of this circle of terrors. Oh! take me away and give me shelter in your house.”

“Everything in good time.”

“Will you wait for me there?”

Leon was on the point of replying, when he thought he heard steps and talking behind one of the doors.

“Where does that door lead to?” he asked in a low voice.

“Into a room opening into the Chinese boudoir.”

“You see; they are watching all we do, listening to all we say. Those are the witnesses preparing their evidence.”

“God knows who they may be! Suppose it were my husband....” said Pepa in Leon’s ear, like thief talking to thief in the silence of the room they have robbed. “Suppose he were to come in here. He might kill us both and hardly be blamed for it. The law would protect him; you are in his wife’s room.”

A cold shiver ran through every vein in Leon’s body.

“Hush,” he whispered to Pepa. “Some one is spying us. But the voices are those of inquisitive women and stupid men servants. They have no weapons but their tongues.”

“And we are here that the witnesses may rehearse their parts!” exclaimed Pepa starting away from him and rushing to the door, like a lioness at bay. “Who is there, listening, prying, watching me, with his ear to my keyhole? I am at home, in my own house, and those who treat me with disrespect shall suffer for it!” Then turning to Leon she went on: “And still you doubt! Danger surrounds us—I tremble for your life, for everything I hold dear.”

Outside the door there was silence; they heard the soft footfall of women creeping away.

“You hear those cat-like steps,” he said. “Cowards like that do not kill, but they will scratch our faces.”

As he spoke they both started with alarm at hearing some one come into Monina’s room. It was the Marquis de FÚcar. He was much agitated.

“I must speak to my daughter,” he said to Leon very solemnly. “What would become of her if an anxious father.... And then a few words with you, Leon. No, it will be better that I should talk to you first.... It is a most delicate subject.—I have just come—my dear Pepa, one moment. Leon and I have two words to say to each other. We will go into the child’s room.”

Pepa was left alone; she could hear the voices of her father and her friend, but could distinguish no words. In a few minutes Don Pedro came back to Pepa alone; she looked anxiously at the door for Leon’s return; but, as her father told her, they had agreed that Leon should not be present at the interview between the father and daughter.

Leon withdrew to the room he had been quartered in, not far from the Incroyable room, and spent a night of cruel anxiety and internal struggle. At first it was like a violent argument between two contending parties. Then the turmoil in his soul took the form of crucial questions which had to be answered. Should he fly with her at once? This was not even to be thought of.

Fly with her by-and-bye? He could not decide.

Leave her to the tender mercies—perhaps almost to the brutality—of that other? Out of the question.

For the moment mere decency required him to quit Suertebella, and withdraw to his own house, where he might further consider what remained to be done. This was the obvious thing; but even more obvious was it not to abandon her who so valiantly tried to defend herself. If there was danger for both of them at Suertebella he could do no less than remain there in defiance of the world’s opinion. The comments of others on any business of his had become a matter of indifference to him, and he decided to act on the dictates of his conscience, and to defy the judgment of the multitude. By remaining he might baffle the painful impression left by the visits he would be forced to receive next day from his friends and acquaintances—a crowd anxious to offer condolences under any circumstances. Everybody knew what was going on, and it was quite certain that even his slightest acquaintance would come to see him here on the scene of his misfortune and of this exciting piece of scandal. At first he thought he would decline to receive any one; then he came to a contrary conclusion. No, he would boldly face the intolerable nuisance of curiosity and impertinence. Why not? The social swarm, living on the sweets of their own sins flavoured with the criticism of the sins of other people—he could only despise and not fear them. Besides all this, Don Pedro had begged him to remain and lend his assistance in carrying out a beneficent project which he was turning over in his mind, and which was sure to turn out well though it was neither a contract nor a loan.