THE ARRIVAL OF THE COUSIN

When Rosarito left him so abruptly the Penitentiary looked toward the garden wall, and seeing the faces of Licurgo and his companion, said to himself: 

“So the prodigy is already here, then.”

He remained thoughtful for some moments, his cloak, grasped with both hands, folded over his abdomen, his eyes fixed on the ground, his gold-rimmed spectacles slipping gently toward the point of his nose, his under-lip moist and projecting, and his iron-gray eyebrows gathered in a slight frown.  He was a pious and holy man, of uncommon learning and of irreproachable clerical habits, a little past his sixtieth year, affable in his manners, courteous and kind, and greatly addicted to giving advice and counsel to both men and women.  For many years past he had been master of Latin and rhetoric in the Institute, which noble profession had supplied him with a large fund of quotations from Horace and of florid metaphors, which he employed with wit and opportuneness.  Nothing more need be said regarding this personage, but that, as soon as he heard the trot of the animals approaching the Calle del Condestable, he arranged the folds of his cloak, straightened his hat, which was not altogether correctly placed upon his venerable head, and, walking toward the house, murmured: 

“Let us go and see this paragon.”

Meanwhile Pepe was alighting from his nag, and Dona Perfecta, her face bathed in tears and barely able to utter a few trembling words, the sincere expression of her affection, was receiving him at the gate itself in her loving arms.

“Pepe ­but how tall you are!  And with a beard.  Why, it seems only yesterday that I held you in my lap.  And now you are a man, a grown-up man.  Well, well!  How the years pass!  This is my daughter Rosario.”

As she said this they reached the parlor on the ground floor, which was generally used as a reception-room, and Dona Perfecta presented her daughter to Pepe.

Rosario was a girl of delicate and fragile appearance, that revealed a tendency to pensive melancholy.  In her delicate and pure countenance there was something of the soft, pearly pallor which most novelists attribute to their heroines, and without which sentimental varnish it appears that no Enriquieta or Julia can be interesting.  But what chiefly distinguished Rosario was that her face expressed so much sweetness and modesty that the absence of the perfections it lacked was not observed.  This is not to say that she was plain; but, on the other hand, it is true that it would be an exaggeration to call her beautiful in the strictest meaning of the word.  The real beauty of Dona Perfecta’s daughter consisted in a species of transparency, different from that of pearl, alabaster, marble, or any of the other substances used in descriptions of the human countenance; a species of transparency through which the inmost depths of her soul were clearly visible; depths not cavernous and gloomy, like those of the sea, but like those of a clear and placid river.  But the material was wanting there for a complete personality.  The channel was wanting, the banks were wanting.  The vast wealth of her spirit overflowed, threatening to wash away the narrow borders.  When her cousin saluted her she blushed crimson, and uttered only a few unintelligible words.

“You must be fainting with hunger,” said Dona Perfecta to her nephew.  “You shall have your breakfast at once.”

“With your permission,” responded the traveller, “I will first go and get rid of the dust of the journey.”

“That is a sensible idea,” said the senora.  “Rosario, take your cousin to the room that we have prepared for him.  Don’t delay, nephew.  I am going to give the necessary orders.”

Rosario took her cousin to a handsome apartment situated on the ground floor.  The moment he entered it Pepe recognized in all the details of the room the diligent and loving hand of a woman.  All was arranged with perfect taste, and the purity and freshness of everything in this charming nest invited to repose.  The guest observed minute details that made him smile.

“Here is the bell,” said Rosario, taking in her hand the bell-rope, the tassel of which hung over the head of the bed.  “All you have to do is to stretch out your hand.  The writing-table is placed so that you will have the light from the left.  See, in this basket you can throw the waste papers.  Do you smoke?”

“Unfortunately, yes,” responded Pepe Rey.

“Well, then, you can throw the ends of your cigars here,” she said, touching with the tip of her shoe a utensil of gilt-brass filled with sand.  “There is nothing uglier than to see the floor covered with cigar-ends.  Here is the washstand.  For your clothes you have a wardrobe and a bureau.  I think this is a bad place for the watch-case; it would be better beside the bed.  If the light annoys you, all you have to do is to lower the shade with this cord; see, this way.”

The engineer was enchanted.

Rosarito opened one of the windows.

“Look,” she said, “this window opens into the garden.  The sun comes in here in the afternoon.  Here we have hung the cage of a canary that sings as if he was crazy.  If his singing disturbs you we will take it away.”

She opened another window on the opposite side of the room.

“This other window,” she continued, “looks out on the street.  Look; from here you can see the cathedral; it is very handsome, and full of beautiful things.  A great many English people come to see it.  Don’t open both windows at the same time, because draughts are very bad.”

“My dear cousin,” said Pepe, his soul inundated with an inexplicable joy; “in all that is before my eyes I see an angel’s hand that can be only yours.  What a beautiful room this is!  It seems to me as if I had lived in it all my life.  It invites to peace.”

Rosarito made no answer to these affectionate expressions, and left the room, smiling.

“Make no delay,” she said from the door; “the dining-room too is down stairs ­in the centre of this hall.”

Uncle Licurgo came in with the luggage.  Pepe rewarded him with a liberality to which the countryman was not accustomed, and the latter, after humbly thanking the engineer, raised his hand to his head with a hesitating movement, and in an embarrassed tone, and mumbling his words, he said hesitatingly: 

“When will it be most convenient for me to speak to Senor Don Jose about a ­a little matter of business?”

“A little matter of business?  At once,” responded Pepe, opening one of his trunks.

“This is not a suitable time,” said the countryman.  “When Senor Don Jose has rested it will be time enough.  There are more days than sausages, as the saying is; and after one day comes another.  Rest now, Senor Don Jose.  Whenever you want to take a ride ­the nag is not bad.  Well, good-day, Senor Don Jose.  I am much obliged to you.  Ah!  I had forgotten,” he added, returning a few moments later.  “If you have any message for the municipal judge ­I am going now to speak to him about our little affair.”

“Give him my compliments,” said Pepe gayly, no better way of getting rid of the Spartan legislator occurring to him.

“Good-by, then, Senor Don Jose.”

“Good-by.”

The engineer had not yet taken his clothes out of the trunk when for the third time the shrewd eyes and the crafty face of Uncle Licurgo appeared in the door-way.

“I beg your pardon, Senor Don Jose,” he said, displaying his brilliantly white teeth in an affected smile, “but ­I wanted to say that if you wish to settle the matter by means of friendly arbitrations ­ Although, as the saying is, ’Ask other people’s opinion of something that concerns only yourself, and some will say it is white and others black.’”

“Will you get away from here, man?”

“I say that, because I hate the law.  I don’t want to have anything to do with the law.  Well, good-by, again, Senor Don Jose.  God give you long life to help the poor!”

“Good-by, man, good-by.”

Pepe turned the key in the lock of the door, saying to himself: 

“The people of this town appear to be very litigious.”