The House of Ulloa

Don Pedro was blissfully happy. When he had decided to undertake the journey, he had been worried in case his cousins turned out to be very formal, stiff young ladies. That would have put him on the spot, for he was quite unfamiliar with the etiquette required in the company of genteel ladies—a “white partridge” of a kind he had never before hunted. But the friendly welcome he had received made him recover all his usual self-possession.

“If you insist that I reveal what is hidden in my heart… then, to be frank, although all the young ladies are very nice indeed, if I were to have to choose… I cannot deny it… I would choose Miss Marcelina.”

“Come on! She’s cross-eyed… and thin… All she has is good hair and a good temper.”

“Señorito, she is a perfect treasure.”

The only hope that remained for the girls was the inheritance from Doña Marcelina, a spinster aunt who, to be more precise, was Nucha’s godmother. She lived a miserly existence in Orense, like a rat in its hole.

This news gave Don Pedro a great deal to think about and he kept Julián awake a few more nights. After that he made a final decision.

After some time of family life with his new in-laws, Don Pedro began to miss his country lair. He could not get used to the cathedral city, which, with its tall, mossy garden walls, narrow porches, gloomy doorways and dark staircases, he likened to a prison.

To Julián, Nucha was, in short, the ideal model of the biblical wife. She was a poetic example of the strong woman, still in her youth, bearing an aura of innocence but promising future wisdom and majesty.

“You pretty boy! Bless you! What’s your name?”

“Perucho,” the young rascal answered in a free and easy manner.

“My husband’s name!” cried the señorita, delighted. “I bet he’s his godson! Eh?”

Julián only understood two words:

“A girl.”

For many a day Nucha lay hovering before that gloomy portal known as death’s door, with one foot on the threshold, as if to say: “Shall I go in, or not?”

“I’m an idiot, a fool. I don’t know why I ever came back here. I should never have returned. It was obvious that the señorito would end up doing this. I have only my own weakness to blame, for even if it was at the risk of my life I should have seen that rogue Primitivo off, if not by fair means, then with a whip.”

Finally Nucha spoke, her voice trembling. “This isn’t the first time that I’ve thought he might be my husband’s son. But I didn’t believe it… Until, that is… I only had to see the look on your face.”

A large, clear drop of water, which was not dew, fell onto the leaves, and at the same time Julián noticed with horror a dark, round purplish mark on her wrist… With sudden clarity his mind flashed back to events of two years ago and he heard once again the groans of a woman being hit with a rifle-butt. He remembered the kitchen, the fury of the marquis.

“You must help me get away from here,” declared Nucha, fixing him with her eyes, which now were more than vague, they were distracted. “Help me get away from this house.”

The greatest of conquering heroes could not have felt more proud of himself than did Perucho, for he was certain he had saved the baby from death and had brought her to safety where no one could find her. He did not think for a moment of his hard, sunburnt grandfather lying by the wall.

Six months after his arrival, he received a letter edged in black. At first he did not fully understand, but when he did he showed no sign of grief. On the contrary, he experienced a sense of comfort and elation, in the sure knowledge that in heaven Señorita Nucha would be rewarded for all her suffering on this miserable earth, where a soul as pure as hers could only know martyrdom. Julián’s own spirit bowed once more to the strict rule of Kempis’s Imitation. Even the shock occasioned by receiving the news of her death soon wore off, while a peaceful passivity cauterized, as it were, his spirit.

There was only one point which gave him cause to doubt that these two charming youngsters were indeed the bastard son and legitimate heiress of the House of Ulloa. For while the clothes worn by Sabel’s son were of a good quality and well-cut, so that one might have placed him as something between a well-to-do peasant and a señorito, Nucha’s daughter wore an old percale dress and shoes that were so broken one could almost say she was barefoot.