Nearly a year had elapsed since I was left alone and desolate; when one evening I was astonished to see a female, closely muffled, enter my house. My mind had that day been peculiarly embittered against my daughter, and she was even now the subject of my thoughts. Great, indeed, was my astonishment, when the apparent stranger flung herself in a kneeling posture before me, and casting off her disguise revealed to my sight the faded lineaments of Valeria!
“Father!” she cried, “forgive me!—forgive the partner of my misery! We are ruined by a reverse of fortune—we are beggars! Distress has deprived us of pride! We seek your pardon!”
“Curse you!” I shouted, spurning her with my foot, “you demand pardon do you? Begone! Pardon, eh? Begone!” I thundered; and I pushed her violently toward the door. She fell. Her head struck a bureau; and the warm blood spouted from the gash. Had I reflected on the delicacy of her situation, it is probable I might have felt compassion enough to let her pass unmolested; but the deed was done. I did not regret it. My vengeance for the series of disappointments she had caused me was satiated.
“The machine of human life, though constituted of a thousand parts, is in all its parts systematically connected; nor is it easy to insert an additional member, the spuriousness of which an accurate observation will not readily detect.”—_Godwin._
It was midnight. Darkness, deep as the sable of a funeral pall, hung over the streets of Madrid. The wind blew in strong gusts, and the rain fell in torrents. The lightning, which, at brief intervals, rent the clouds, and flashed across the gloom, revealed no living, moving thing. For an instant only, the livid sheets lit up the streets and squares, and glared over the Plaza Mayon, so often the scene of savage bull-fights, of cruel executions, and, in former years, of the horrible _Auto de fé_. And again, as it seemed, a tenfold blackness enveloped every object; convents, colleges and hospitals, closed at every aperture, were shrouded in the general gloom. Man, though the noblest work of his Creator—glorying in his wisdom and in his might—towering in the battle-field—great in council—overweening, arrogant, boastful; in such a night learns to feel his own insignificance. He, who adorned with all the pageantry of wealth, elevates himself far above the lowly individual that seeks his daily bread by daily labor—who looks down as from an immeasurable height upon the poor peasant of the soil—even he, so rich, so powerful, sheltered within his stately walls, listens to the war of the elements that rage without—and inwardly congratulating himself on his rich and comfortable asylum, yet shrinks involuntarily as the blast shrieks by—and silently acknowledges his own impotence.