"I trust you, my child--I believe you! Ah, you cannot think what good you have done me!"

She seized her hands and kissed them fondly. Clementina exclaimed, as if ashamed:

"No, no, mamma! It is I who----" And she threw her arms round her neck.

They held each other in a warm embrace, shedding silent tears. It was one of the few occasions in her life when Clementina wept from tender feeling, and not from vexation of spirit.

But during the remaining days, though the memory of this scene was lively with them both, so, too, was that of the suspicion which had led to it. Clementina felt herself humbled in her stepmother's presence. Her attentions and endearments were now and then a little forced; she tried to efface the impression she still read in Dona Carmen's eyes. Then, again, fearing this might lead her to doubt her sincerity, she would suddenly cut them short, and a.s.sume a cold indifference. In short, a current of disquietude flowed between the two women, and caused them both much suffering, though in different ways, whenever they were together.

At last Dona Carmen took to her bed, never again to rise. Clementina spent the whole day by her side. The terrible end was near. One morning, between two and three, two of the Duke's servants gave the alarm to the Osorios. The d.u.c.h.ess was dying, and asked repeatedly for her daughter.

Clementina hastily dressed and flew to the Requena Palace as fast as her horses could carry her. Osorio went with her. As they alighted they met the Duke, with an expression of scornful gloom.

"You are in time--oh, you are in time!" he growled, and he turned away without another word.

Clementina fancied the words were spoken with a malevolent sneer, and bit her lips with rage. The pitiable scene that met her eyes as she approached Dona Carmen's bedside pacified her for the moment. The poor woman's face was stamped by the hand of death; pale as a corpse, the nose pinched and white, the eyes gla.s.sy and sunk in a livid circle.

Standing by her side was a priest, exhorting her to repentance. Of what?

Her faithful maid, Marcella, stood at the foot of the bed crying bitterly, her face hidden in her handkerchief; and two other maids in the background looked on at the pathetic picture, frightened rather than sorrowful. The physician was writing a prescription at a table in the corner.

On seeing her daughter the d.u.c.h.ess turned to look in her face with an anxious expression, and held out a hand to her.

"Come close, child," she said, in a fairly strong voice. And she took Clementina's right hand in her own thin, waxen hands, and said, with a fearful fixity of gaze:

"I am dying, my child, dying. Do you not see it? Only so long as you are not glad of it."

"Mamma, dear mamma!"

"Say that you are not glad," she earnestly insisted, without ceasing to look in her daughter's eyes.

"Mamma, mamma, for G.o.d's sake!" cried Clementina, both bewildered and alarmed.

"Say that you are not glad!" she repeated, with increased energy, even raising her head with a great effort, and looking sternly at her.

"No, my beloved mother, no. If I could save your life at the cost of my own I swear to you I would do so."

The dying woman's dim eyes softened; she laid her head on the pillow, and, after a short silence, she said, in a weak, quavering voice:

"You would be very ungrateful--very ungrateful. Your poor mother has loved you dearly. Kiss me, do not cry. I am not sorry to leave this world. What hurt me was the thought that you, child of my heart--you--oh, horrible to think of! How it has tortured me!"

The priest here interposed, desiring her to turn her mind from worldly thoughts. The sick woman listened with humility, and devoutly echoed the prayers he spoke in a loud voice. The doctor and the Duke came close to the bed, but, seeing that Dona Carmen was breathing her last, the physician took Requena by the arm to lead him out of the room. Dona Carmen's glazing eye wandered round the little group till it rested on Clementina, to whom she signed to come closer.

"G.o.d bless you, my child," she said, with a gaze fixed on the ceiling.

"You are right to be glad at my death."

"Mamma, mamma, what are you saying?" cried Clementina, in horror.

"I am glad, too, glad that my death should be an advantage to you. If I could have given you all while I lived, I would have done it. It is sad, is it not, that I should have to die to make you happy? I should have liked to see you happy. Good-by; good-by. Think sometimes of your poor mamma."

"Mother, dearest mother!" sobbed the younger woman, dropping on her knees with a burst of tears. "I do not want you to die, no, no. I have been very wicked, but I have always loved you, have always respected you."

"Do not be foolish," said the dying woman, smiling with an effort, and laying her hand on the fair head. "I am not sorry if you are glad. And what does it matter? I die content to know that you will owe some happiness to me. Remember my old women in the asylum, be kind to them, and to Marcella, my good Marcella. Farewell, all of you. Forgive me any faults----"

Her voice failed, her breathing was hard and painful. The sobs of Clementina and Marcella were the only other sound. The Duke, trembling and shocked, was at last persuaded to leave the room.

Dona Carmen spoke no more. Her eyes closed, her lips parted, she lay quite still. Now and then she half raised her eyelids and looked fondly at her step-daughter who remained kneeling. The priest read on in a quavering nasal voice prayer after prayer.

Thus died the d.u.c.h.ess de Requena. Let her depart in peace.

For some days after, Clementina and her husband, in spite of their inextinguishable aversion, held long and repeated conferences. The great question of the inheritance united their interests for a while.

Clementina went every morning and evening to see her father, and Osorio too was a frequent visitor; they both were lavish of attentions to the old man, took pity on his loneliness, and made much of him. There was an affectionate familiarity in their demeanour which was highly becoming in a son and daughter who make it their duty to cherish a venerable parent in his old age. The Duke, on his part, accepted their care, watching them with an expression which was ironical rather than grateful. When their backs were turned to leave him, he gazed after them, slowly closing his eyes, and turned his cigar-stump between his teeth, while his lips sketched a sarcastic smile, which did not die away for some few seconds.

But everything went on as before. Although the d.u.c.h.ess's will was incontrovertible, Salabert never said a word on money matters. He continued to manage the whole of the fortune, and engaged in various concerns with calm despotism. But his daughter and son-in-law were not so calm. They began, on the contrary, to be greatly disturbed, to express their opinions to each other with crude vehemence, and to lay plots to provoke an explanation. Clementina thought that Osorio should speak to her father. He considered it her part to apply to him in dutiful terms for an explanation, before formulating a complaint. After some days of hesitation the wife finally made up her mind to say a few words to her father, though not without some embarra.s.sment, since she knew his temper and her own too.

"Well, papa," said she, with affected lightness, finding him alone in his room, "when are you going to talk over money matters with me?"

"Money matters? Why should I?" he replied in a tone of surprise, and looking at her with such an air of innocence that she longed to slap his face.

"Why should you? Because it will have to be done, to put me in possession of my property. Am I not mamma's sole legatee?" she answered in the same cheerful tone, but there was a very perceptible quaver in her voice.

"Ah, to be sure!" exclaimed the Duke, with a flourish of the hand to dismiss the subject. "We will talk of that later--much later."

Clementina turned pale. Her blood seemed to curdle with rage. Her lips quivered, and she was on the point of saying something violent.

"Still, it would be as well that we should come to an understanding,"

she murmured in a low voice.

"Not at all, not at all. I cannot discuss it now. When I have time and am in the humour I will think about it."

He spoke with such decision and indifference that his daughter had no choice but either to give the reins to her tongue and quarrel violently with her father, or to go. After a moment's hesitation she went. She turned on her heel, and, without a word of leave-taking, she quitted the room and went off in her carriage, in such a state of excitement that she was trembling from head to foot.

As soon as she reached home she shut herself up in her own room and gave vent to her fury. She wept, she stamped, she tore her clothes, and broke various articles of crockery. Osorio too flew into a rage, and declared he would bring Salabert to book. But nothing came of it all, excepting a letter, in which respectfully enough, he required his father-in-law to give him an account of the state of his business, that the preliminaries of an estimate might be arrived at. Salabert simply did not answer. They wrote another; again no reply. They ceased going to the house.

Clementina would not go for fear of a scandal. Osorio, on his part, considering the relations that subsisted between him and his wife, did not feel that he had the moral position which would ent.i.tle him to lay formal claim to her fortune.

In this predicament they consulted certain persons of weight, friends of the Duke, and requested them to mediate. This was done; they had various interviews with the old man, and after much consultation a friendly meeting was agreed on, to avoid bringing the matter into a court of law.

The meeting was held, after some objections on Clementina's part, at her father's house. Besides the interested parties, there were present Father Ortega, the Conde de Cotorraso, Calderon, and Jimenez Arbos.

The proceedings were opened by Arbos--no longer in the Ministry, but a member of the Opposition--who made a speech in a conciliatory key, urging them to agree rather than present to the public the spectacle of a quarrel on money matters between a father and daughter--a spectacle which, in view of the position they held, must be both painful and discreditable. The next to speak was Father Ortega, who, in the unctuous and persuasive accents which characterised him, first bestowed on both parties a plentiful lather of preposterous encomiums, and then appealed to their Christian feelings, representing how bad an example they would set, and painting the sweets of loving-kindness and self-sacrifice, ending by promises of eternal life and glory.

Clementina replied. She had no wish but to continue in the same friendly relations with her father as had hitherto subsisted, and to achieve that end she was prepared to do all in her power. The curt, dry tone in which she spoke, and the scowl which accompanied her words, gave no strong evidence of sincerity. However, the Duke seemed greatly moved.

"Arbos," he began, "Father, my friends, and my children; you all know me well. To me, without domestic life, there is no possibility of happiness. After the terrible blow I have so lately suffered, my daughter is all that is left to me. On her centre all my hopes, my affections, and my pride. For her I have toiled, have struggled indefatigably, have acc.u.mulated the capital I possess. I may say that I have never cared for money but for the sake of my wife, now in glory, and my daughter--to see them living in comfort and luxury. As you know, I could always have lived on a few coppers a day. And now that I am old, all the more so. What can I want with millions? Ere long, I too must take the train for the other side--Eh, Julian? And you too.--Who then can suppose that I should ever quarrel over a handful of dollars with my dear and only daughter? The whole thing has been a mistake. I wanted time to put my affairs in order; that was all. And if you, my child, ever could imagine anything else, I can only tell you this: everything in this house is yours, and always has been. Take it whenever you choose. Take it, my child, take it. I can do with nothing."

As he p.r.o.nounced the last words with visible emotion, they all were able to shed a tear. Every one was deeply moved and eager with conciliatory exhortation. Father Ortega gently pushed Clementina into her father's arms; and though she was the least agitated of the party, she allowed him to embrace her.

He clasped her to his heart for some minutes, and when he released her dropped into his arm-chair, with his handkerchief to his eyes, quite overcome by so much emotion.

After so pathetic a scene no one could allude to money. The meeting broke up with fervid hand-pressing and warm mutual congratulations on the happy issue of their diplomacy. But Osorio and his wife got into their carriage, grave and sullen, and exchanged not a single word on the drive home. Only as they reached their own door, Clementina said: