A FEW days after the ball, at eleven in the morning of a Friday in Lent, the most elegant of "Savages" woke from his calm and sound slumbers, fully determined to marry CalderÓn's little daughter. He opened his eyes, glanced at the hippic decorations which ornamented the walls of his room, stretched himself gracefully, drank a glass of lemonade which stood by his bedside, and prepared to rise. It cannot be positively asserted that the resolution had been formed during sleep, but it is quite certain that it was the birth of a mysterious travail which he had not consciously aided. When he went to bed Castro had only the vaguest thoughts of this advantageous alliance; on waking, his determination to sue for Esperanza's hand, by whatever process it had been elaborated, was irrevocable. Let us congratulate the happy damsel, and for the present devote our attention to studying the noble "Savage" in the act of perfecting the beautiful object which Nature had achieved in creating him.

His servant had prepared his bath. After looking in the glass to study the face of the day—his own—he took up some dumb-bells, and went through a few exercises. Then taking a foil, he practised a score or so of lunges, and finally he delivered a dozen or more punches on the pad of a dynamometer. Having accomplished this, the moment was come for him to step into the water. He was still splashing and sponging, when into his room, unannounced, walked the poor crazy Marquis Manolo Davalos.

"Pepe, I want to speak to you about a very important matter," said he, with an air of mystery, his eyes wilder than ever.

"Wait a minute; I am tubbing."

"Then make haste; I am in a great hurry."

Davalos rose from the chair into which he had dropped, and began walking up and down the room with a sort of feverish agitation, to which his friends had become accustomed. He could not remain still for five minutes. Any one else going through half the exercise he took in the course of the day would have been utterly exhausted before night. Castro watched him at first with contemptuous raillery in his eye; but he grew serious as he saw Manolo go up to the table and begin to play with a neat little revolver which Castro kept by his bedside.

"Look out there, Manolo! It is loaded."

"So I see, so I see," said the other with a smile; and turning round sharply, he added: "What do you think Madrid would say if I shot you dead?"

Pepe Castro felt a chill run down his spine, which was not altogether attributable to the cold bath, and he laughed rather queerly.

"And you know I could do it with impunity," his visitor went on, "as I am said to be mad——."

"Ha, ha, ha!" Castro laughed hysterically.

He was no coward; on the contrary, he had a reputation for punctilio and courage; but, like all fighting men, he liked a public. The prospect of an inglorious death at the hands of a maniac did not smile on his fancy. The example of Seneca, Marat, and other heroes who had been killed in their bath did nothing to encourage him, possibly because he had never heard of them. Davalos came towards him with the revolver cocked, saying:

"What will they say in town, eh? What will they say?"

Castro was as cold as though he were up to his chin in ice instead of water with the chill off. However, he had presence of mind enough to say:

"Lay down that revolver, Manolo. If you don't, you shall never see Amparo again as long as you live." Amparo was the fair demi-mondaine whom we have already seen at the Duke's ball. She had ruined the Marquis, a widower with young children, who had seriously intended to marry the woman; and his brain, none of the strongest at any time, had finally given way, when his family had interfered to protect him from her rapacity.

"Never again! Why not?" he asked, dejection painted on his face, as he lowered the weapon.

"Because I will not allow it; I will tell her never to let you inside her doors."

"Well, well, my dear fellow, do not be put out, I was only in fun," said the lunatic, replacing the revolver on the table.

Castro jumped out of the bath. No sooner was he wrapped in the turkish towel, with which he dried himself, than he seized the weapon and locked it away. Easy in his mind now, though annoyed by the fright his crazy friend had given him, he began talking to him in a tone of contemptuous ill-humour, while, standing before his glass, he lavished on his handsome person, with the greatest respect, all the care due to its merits.

"Now, then, out with it, man, out with the great secret. One of your fool's errands as usual, I suppose. I declare, Manolo, you ought not to be allowed in the streets. You should go somewhere and be cured," he said, as he rubbed his arms with some scented unguent which he selected from the collection of pots and bottles of every size arrayed before him.

The Marquis put his hand in his pocket, took out his note-book, and from it a letter in a woman's hand, saying with some solemnity:

"She has just written me this note. I want you to read it."

Pepe did not even turn his head to look at the document his friend held out to him. Absorbed at the moment in blending the ends of his moustache with his beard, he said in an absent-minded way:

"And what does she want?"

Davalos stared in surprise at the small interest he took in this precious missive.

"Shall I read it to you?"

"If it is not very long."

Manolo unfolded it as reverently as though it were the autograph of a saint, and read with deep emotion:

"My word! She is a cool hand. I suppose you did not send the money?"

"No."

"Quite right."

"Well, I had not got it. It is on purpose to see if you can help me that I have come here."

Castro turned round and contemplated his visitor with a look of surprise and irritation. Then, addressing himself to his glass again, he said:

"My dear Manolo, you are the greatest fool out. I am sure that when your aunt dies you will let that hussy spend the money for you as she has spent your own fortune."

The Marquis was in a fury.

"Do you know where the real wrong is?" he said. "It lies with my family, who, without rhyme or reason, interfere to prevent my marrying her. As my wife—as the mother of my motherless children—they would have been happy, and so should I!"

Castro stared at him in blank amazement. Tears stood on the Marquis's pale cheeks. Pepe made a grimace of contemptuous pity, and went on combing his moustache. After a few minutes' silence, he said:

"I am very sorry, old fellow. I have not got two thousand pesetas; but if I had I would not lend them to you for such a purpose, you may be very sure."

Davalos made no reply, but again paced the room.

"Whom can I ask?" he suddenly said, stopping short.

"Try Salabert," said Castro, with a short laugh.

Manolo clenched his fists and ground his teeth; his eyes glared ominously, and with a stride he went up to Pepe, who drew back a step, and prepared to defend himself.

"Such a speech is a gross insult!—an insult worthy of a bullet or a sword thrust! You are a coward—in your own house!"

His eyes started in a really terrific stare; but he did not succeed in provoking his friend. He ultimately controlled himself with a great effort, only flinging his hat on the floor with such violence as to crush it. Castro stood perfectly still, as if turned to stone. So often before he had jested with the crazy fellow, and said far rougher things, without his ever dreaming of taking offence, and now, by pure chance, as it seemed, he flew into this unaccountable rage. He tried to soothe him by an apology, but Manolo did not listen. Though he had got past the first impulse to struggle with him, he raged up and down like a caged wild beast, muttering threats and gesticulating vehemently. However, he soon broke down:

"I should never have believed it of you, Pepe," he murmured in a broken voice. "I should never have supposed that my best friend would so insult me—so stab me to the heart."

"But bless me, man——!"

"Do not speak to me, Pepe. You have stabbed me with a word; leave me in peace. God forgive you, as I forgive you! I am like a hare wounded by the hunter, which runs to its form to die. Do not harry me any more; leave me to die in peace."

And the simile of the hare seemed to him so pathetic that he sank sobbing into an arm-chair. At the same time he had a severe fit of coughing, and Castro had to persuade him to drink a cup of lime-flower tea.

By the time the luckless Marquis had a little recovered, Pepe had achieved the adornment of his person, which he proceeded to take out walking, very correctly and exquisitely dressed in a frock-coat. He breakfasted at Lhardy's, looked in at the Club, and by three in the afternoon or thereabouts bent his steps to the house of the Marquesa de Alcudia, his aunt, in the Calle de San Mateo. This lady was, as we know, very proud of her religion, and equally so, to say the least, of her pedigree. Pepe was her favourite nephew, and, though his dissipated mode of life disgusted her not a little, she had always treated him with much affection, hoping to tempt him into the right way. In the Marquesa's opinion, quarterings of nobility were as efficacious in their way as the Sacrament of Ordination. Whatever villainies a noble might commit, he was still a noble, as a priest is always a priest.

Castro had thought of this devout lady as one likely to assist him in his project. His instincts—which were more to be depended on than his intelligence—told him that if the Marquesa undertook the negotiations for his marriage with Esperancita she would undoubtedly succeed. She was a person of much influence in fashionable society, and even more with those persons who, like CalderÓn, had gained a place in it by wealth.

The Alcudia's mansion was a gloomy structure, built in the fashion of the last century—a ground floor with large barred windows and one floor above; nothing more. But it covered a vast extent of ground, with a neglected garden in the rear. The entrance was not decorative; the outside steps rough-hewn to begin with, and much worn. The late lamented Alcudia was proposing some repairs and improvements when death interfered with his plans. His widow abandoned them, not so much out of avarice as from intense conservatism, even in matters which most needed reform.

Within, the house was sumptuously fitted; the furniture was antique and very handsome; the walls hung with splendid tapestry; and fine pictures by the old masters graced the library and the oratory. This was indeed a marvel of splendour. It stood at one corner of the building on the ground floor, but was two storeys high, and as lofty, in fact, as a church. The windows were filled with stained glass, like those of a Gothic cathedral; the floor was richly carpeted; there was a small gallery with an organ; and the altar, in the French taste, was beautifully decorated. Over it hung an Ecce Homo, by Morales. It was an elegant and comfortable little chapel, warmed by a large stove in the cellar beneath.

In the drawing-room Pepe found only the girls, busy with their needlework. Their mother, they said, was in the study, writing letters. So, after exchanging a few words with his cousins, he joined her there.

"May I come in, aunt?"

"Come in, come in. You, Pepe?" said the Marquesa, looking up at him over the spectacles she wore for writing.

"If I am interrupting you I will go away. I want to consult you," said the young man, with a smile.

He took a chair, and while his aunt went on writing with a firm, swift hand, he meditated the exordium to the speech he was about to deliver. At last the pen dashed across the paper with a strident squeak, no doubt emphasising the writer's signature, and taking off her spectacles, she said:

"At your service, Pepe."

Pepe looked at the floor, praying no doubt for inspiration, twirled his moustache, cleared his throat and at last began with much solemnity.

"Well, aunt, I do not know whether it is that God has touched my heart, or merely that I am weary of my present mode of life; but at any rate for some time past I have been taking to heart the advice you have so often given me, and which goes hand in hand with my own wish to settle down, to give up the bad habits which I have contracted for want of a father to guide me, and yet more of a mother, like yourself. I am very nearly thirty, and it is time to think of the name I bear. I owe a duty to that, and to my calling as a Christian; for in all my excesses I have never forgotten that I belong to an old Catholic family, and that nowadays in Spain it is incumbent on our class to protect the cause of religion and set a good example, as you do. The means I look to as an encouragement to the change I feel within me is marriage."

The penitent could not have chosen his words better in addressing his aunt Eugenia. They made so good an impression that she rose from her place and came to lay a hand on his shoulder, exclaiming:

"You delight me, Pepito. You cannot imagine what pleasure you give me. And you say you do not know whether God has touched your heart! How could you have undergone this sudden change, if He had not inspired it? It is the touch of God, indeed, my boy, the finger of God—and the noble blood which runs in your veins. Have you chosen a wife?"

The young man smiled and nodded.

"Who is she?"

"I had thought of Esperanza CalderÓn. What do you think of her?"

"Nothing could be better. She is very well brought up, attractive, and I love her as a child of my own. She has always been my Pacita's bosom friend, as you know. Your choice is a most happy one."

Castro smiled again with a gleam of mischief, as he went on:

"You see, aunt, I would rather have married a girl of our own rank, But, as you know, I am utterly ruined, and the daughters of good families are not apt to have fortunes in these days. Those who have, would not have anything to say to me, as I have nothing to offer but what they already possess—a noble name. It is for this reason that I have chosen one of no birth, but with a good fortune."

"Very wise. And though we are compromising our dignity a little, we must save the name from disgrace. And Esperanza is a thoroughly good girl. She has been brought up among ourselves. She will always be a perfect lady, and do you credit."

The young man's face still wore that strange sarcastic smile. For a minute or two he remained silent; then he said:

"Do you know what we young fellows call a marriage of this kind?"

"No—what?"

"Eating dirt."

The Marquesa smiled frigidly, but then, looking grave again, she replied:

"No, that cannot be said in this case, Pepe. I can answer for this girl that she is worthy of a brilliant marriage. You will be a gainer. Are you engaged? Have you spoken to her? I have had no communication——"

"I have not said anything as yet I know that she does not dislike me; we look kindly on each other, but nothing more. Before taking any definite steps I decided that I would speak to you as the person of most weight of our family in Madrid."

"Very proper; you have behaved admirably. When marriage is in question it is well to proceed with due caution and formality, for, after all, it is a sacrament of the Church.[E] In better times than these no alliance was ever contracted in the higher circles without consulting the opinion of the heads of both houses. I thank you for your confidence in me, and you may count on my approval."

"And on your assistance? You see I am afraid of meeting with some difficulties on her father's part. He loves hard cash. And to be frank, I should not relish a refusal."

The Marquesa sat meditating for a while.

"Leave him to me. I will do my best to bring him to reason. But you must promise to do nothing without consulting me. It is a delicate negotiation, and will need prudence and skill."

"I give you my word, aunt."

"Above all be very careful with the little girl. Do not startle her."

"I will do exactly what you bid me."

They presently went together into the drawing-room, where some visitors had arrived.

On Friday afternoons during Lent, the Marquesa received those of her friends who, like herself, would devote an hour or two to prayer and religious exercises. There were the Marquesa de Ujo and her daughter, still with her skirts far above her ankles, General PatiÑo, Lola Madariaga and her husband, Clementina Osorio, with her faithful companion Pascuala, and several others; and, above all, Padre Ortega. As, in fact, the honours of the occasion were his, and he was director of the entertainment, every one had gathered about him in the middle of the room. Everyone talked louder than he did; the illustrious priest's voice was always soft and subdued, as though he were in a sick room. But as soon as he began to speak, silence instantly reigned—every one listened with respectful attention.

The Marquesa, on entering, kissed his hand with an air of submission, and inquired affectionately after a cold from which he had been suffering.

"Oh! have you a cold, Father?" inquired several ladies at once.

"A little, a mere trifle," replied the priest, with a smile of suave resignation.

"By no means a trifle," said the Marquesa. "Yesterday in church you coughed incessantly."

And she proceeded to give the minutest details of the reverend Father's sufferings, omitting nothing which could make her account more graphic. The priest sat smiling, with his eyes on the ground, saying:

"Do not let it disturb you, the Marquesa is always over anxious. You might think that I was in the last stage of consumption."

"But, Father, you must take care of yourself, you really must take care of yourself. You do too much. For the sake of religion you ought to spare yourself a little."

The whole party joined in advising him with affectionate interest. A maiden of seven-and-thirty, a sportive, gushing thing, whose confessor he was, even said, half seriously and half in jest:

"Why, Father, if you were to die, what would become of me?"

A sally which made the guests laugh, but somewhat disconcerted the very proper director of souls. The Marquesa wished to hinder him this afternoon from delivering the address with which he usually favoured them; but he insisted.

Meanwhile the room had been filling. Mariana CalderÓn had come in with Esperancita, the Cotorrasos, Pepa Frias, and Irene. She, poor child, looked pale and ailing; in fact, she had come straight from her room, to which she had been confined for some days with a nervous attack. When the party was large enough, the Marquesa invited them to retire to the Oratory. The ladies took front places near the altar, chairs and stools having been comfortably arranged for them, the gentlemen stood in the background and were provided only with a velvet-pile carpet to kneel on.

The meeting began by each one going through the prayers of the Rosary after Padre Ortega. The ladies did this with edifying precision and devotion, their ivory fingers, on which diamonds and emeralds twinkled like stars, piously crossed or clasped, their pretty heads bent low—they were quite bewitching. The Creator must surely hearken to their prayers, if it were only out of gallantry. Not the least humble, the least engaging and edifying figure of them all was Pepa Frias. A black mantilla was most becoming to her russet hair and pink and white complexion. The same may be said of Clementina, who was taller, with more delicate features, and in no respect inferior in brilliancy and beauty of colouring. The languid and artistic attitudes affected by the fair devotees were no doubt intended to appeal to the Divine Will; but, as a secondary end, they were no less certainly meant to edify the escort of men who looked down on them. And, if by any chance there could have been a Freethinker among them, what confusion and shame must have possessed his soul on seeing that all that was most elegant and distinguished of the High-life of Madrid was enlisted in the service of the Lord.

Prayer being over, two of the ladies, accompanied by a baritone "Savage," went up into the gallery, and while another gentleman played the organ, they sang some of the finest airs from Rossini's Stabat Mater. As they listened, the pious souls felt a vague craving for the Opera house, for La Tosti and Gayarre, and confessed regretfully, in the depths of their hearts, that the amateur performance promised them in Heaven would be a stupendous and eternal bore. After the music came Padre Ortega's homily or lecture. The priest was accommodated on a sort of throne of ebony and marble in the middle of the chapel, the ladies moved their chairs and cushions, so as to face him, and the gentlemen formed an outer circle, and after a few moments of private meditation to collect his ideas, he began in a gentle tone to speak a few slow and solemn words, on the subject of the Christian Family.

As we know, Father Ortega was a priest quite up to the mark of modern civilisation, who kept his eye on the advance of rationalistic science that he might pounce down on it and put it to rout. Positivism, evolution, sociology, pessimism, were all familiar words to him, and did not frighten him, as they did most of his colleagues. He was on intimate terms with them, and fond of using them to confute the pretensions of modern learning. What he esteemed to be his own strong ground, was the demonstration of the perfect compatibility of science with faith, the Harmony (with a capital H) between Religion and Philosophy. His discourse on the Family was profound and eloquent. To Father Ortega, that which constituted the Family was a reverence and love for tradition, reverence and love for the past. "The Family is Tradition—the tradition of its glory and of its name, of honour, virtue, and heroism; and all these may be summed up in two words: respect for elders—love and reverence, that is to say, for all that is highest and most conservative in the race."

Starting from this theorem, the preacher inveighed against revolution as against a gale from hell, blowing down all that was old, and clearing the ground for all that was new; against the barbarous hostility of our time to the beliefs, the manners, the laws, the institutions, and the glories of the past.

"The banners of revolution are inscribed with the motto: 'Despise the Elders,'" said he, "as though old creeds, old manners, old institutions, old aristocracies—though like everything human, they fall far short of perfection—did not represent the labours of our forefathers, their intelligence, their triumphs, their soul, life, and heart. And this being the case, how could revolutionary science, which casts its stupid contumely on everything ancient and venerable, fail to besmirch even our great ancestors with its scorn? One element of dissolution in the Family was the attack on property, directed by the revolutionary faction. This aggression was not merely adverse to the constitution of society, it was still more directly hostile to that of the Family. Property, inheritance, and the patrimony, what were they but the outcome of reverence for our forefathers on the one hand, of love for our children on the other? Property consolidates the present, the past, and the future of the Family; it is the spot where it has grown up and spread; the soil which, when the progenitors pass away, assures them of rest beneath the tree of posterity, which shall grow up from it and call them blessed!"

Then, for above an hour, the learned Father proved the existence, on the most solid foundations, of the Christian family. Its bases were religion, tradition, and property. He spoke with decision, in a simple, convincing style, and emphatic but correct language. His audience were deeply attentive and docile, quite persuaded that it was the Holy Ghost which spoke by the mouth of the reverend preacher, commanding them to cherish tradition and religion, but, above all, property. The sublime thought was so elevating that some of the gentlemen present felt themselves united for all eternity to the Supreme Being by the sacred tie of landed estate, and registered a vow to fight for it heroically, and resist the passing of any law which, directly or indirectly, might affect its integrity.

When he ended he was rewarded by smiles of approbation and repressed murmurs of enthusiasm. Every one spoke in a whisper, out of respect to the sanctity of the spot. The bold damsel who just now had asked Father Ortega what she could do without him, flew to kiss his hand, with a succession of sounding smacks which made the rest of the company exchange meaning smiles of amusement, and the priest drew it away with evident annoyance. Once more, some ladies and gentlemen went up into the gallery and executed, in every sense of the word, some religious music by Gounod. Finally, all the saintly souls left the little chapel and returned to the drawing-room.

The Marquesa de Alcudia, a restless nature that knew no peace, at once proceeded to carry out her promise to her nephew. He saw her take Mariana aside; they quitted the room together. By-and-by they returned, and Castro could see that he had been the subject of their parley by the timid and affectionate glance bestowed on him by Esperancita's mother. Then he saw his aunt retire with Padre Ortega into a corner where they had a private consultation, and again he suspected that he was their theme. The priest looked towards him two or three times with his vague, short-sighted eyes. He had taken care not to go near Esperanza, but they had exchanged smiles and looks from afar. The girl seemed surprised at his sudden reserve; for the last few days Pepe had been assiduous. She was beginning to be uneasy, and at last crossed the room to speak to him.

"You were not at the Opera last night; are you keeping Lent?"

"Oh, no!" said he, with a laugh. "I had a little headache and went to bed early."

"I do not wonder. What could you expect? You were riding a horse in the afternoon that did nothing but shy. He is a handsome beast, but much too lively. At one moment I thought he would have you off."

Castro smiled with a superior air, and the girl hastened to add: "I know you are a fine horseman; but an accident may happen to any one."

"What would you have done if I had been thrown?" he asked, looking her straight in the face.

"How do I know!" exclaimed the girl with a shrug, but she blushed deeply.

"Would you have screamed?"

"What strange things you ask me," said Esperanza, getting hotter and hotter. "I might perhaps—or I might not."

Just then the Marquesa de Alcudia addressed her.

"Esperanza, I want to speak to you."

And as she passed her nephew she said in a low voice:

"Prudence, Pepe! Asides are not in your part."

Any less superior soul would have felt some anxiety at seeing the two women leave the room together, some uneasiness as to the issue of this all-important interview; but our friend was so far above the common herd in this, as in other matters, that he could chatter with the company with as much tranquillity as though his aunt and Esperanza had gone to discuss the fashions. When they presently returned, Esperanza's little face was in a glow, her eyes beaming with an expression of submission and happiness, which, but for fear of committing a deadly sin in Lent, we might compare to that of the Virgin Mary on the occasion when she was visited by the Angel Gabriel.

The meeting still preserved a sanctimonious tone. These chastened souls could not forget that they were celebrating the Fasting in the Wilderness. The young ladies round the piano piously abstained from singing anything frivolous; their voices were modulated to the Ave Marias of Schubert and Gounod, and other songs no less redolent of sacred emotion. They talked and laughed in subdued tones. If one of the young men spoke a little recklessly the ladies would call him to order, reminding him that on a Friday in Lent certain subjects were prohibited. The Spirit of God must indeed have been present with the meeting if we may judge from the resignation, the intense serenity, with which they all seemed to endure existence in this vale of tears. A placid smile was on every lip; the afternoon waned amid sacred song, mellifluous exhortation, and subdued mirth. The newspapers reported next day, with perfect truth, that these pious Fridays were quite delightful, and that the Marquesa de Alcudia did the honours in the name of the Almighty with exquisite grace.

The party at length dispersed. All these souls, so blessed and refreshed by faith, trooped out of the Alcudia Palace and made their way home, where they sat down to dine on hot turtle soup, mayonnaise of salmon, and salads of Brussels sprouts, beginning with prawns to sharpen their appetites. But, indeed, the hours of silent prayer and communion with the Divinity had already done this. Nothing is more effectual in giving tone to the stomach than the sense of union with the Omnipotent, and the hope that, albeit there are fire and eternal torments for pickpockets and those misguided souls who do not believe in them, for all Christian families—those, that is to say, who believe in property and in their ancestors—there are certainly comfortable quarters in reserve, with an eternity of salmon mayonnaise and prawns À la Parisienne.