Torres' efforts to find out what had become of Monsalvat were all unsuccessful. He even wrote to Nacha, who replied that she had not seen him nor had any news of him. These falsehoods did not much trouble her conscience. She wanted to keep Monsalvat near her, have him for herself alone; and she was fearful of his friends, of his associates at the ministry, of everything which threatened to interrupt her possession of him. When, in the afternoon, she came home from work, she could scarcely breathe with the anxiety and the fear of no longer finding him there.
But the emotion she felt was to all appearances purely fraternal. Suffering had spiritualized it. The first kiss had been the last. Nacha knew how little the physical aspect of love meant. She could not offer her lover something of as little price as her body. To Monsalvat she would give her heart and soul and whatever good there was in her; her tenderness, as immeasurable as space, and her suffering, as deep as the sea. Nor did he desire her. Nacha was no longer a mere woman to him; she had become a symbol, tremendously significant, of all women who pay the penalty she was paying, of those victims rejected by society—daughters of the mire and of human misery; and she was his sister as well. If at times he desired Nacha, the desire was fleeting, a passing sentiment. He knew that it was this sentiment which had drawn him towards her; and in this fact he saw a proof of the wisdom of instinct, of nature's fundamental soundness; for desire had, in moments of vacillation and uneasiness of conscience, led him to the right road. Now he was no longer a man of the world, nor a distinguished lawyer, nor anything else that he had been. As far as the world was concerned, he was a ruined man. But in his own eyes he had saved himself, found a purpose for his life; the purpose to give everything he had to others, and to suffer for them. What did all the rest matter if, in this course of conduct, he found what he recognized as the "Good" he craved?
And so time passed. Nacha went to the shop in the morning, and returned at night. Monsalvat went out only to go to the Ministry, and to offer relief to those in great need. When he came back from the office he gathered the children in the house together and taught them to read; and his evenings were for Nacha, for long waking dreams—a book in his hands, and silence keeping watch over them like a faithful dog. His evenings were for that idealized love which Nacha too now understood.
But one evening Nacha told him of the doubts that troubled her. Why sacrifice one's life, and tranquillity, and happiness, for others? With so much wretchedness in the world, what could one man's slow and small accomplishment matter? And why give one's whole soul to something that offered no visible reward?
"Nacha," he replied, "to sacrifice ourselves for others is a duty. It is the only reason for our living. If we all accepted this principle, life would be inconceivably beautiful. And what other principle makes our lives consistent with our opinions and our ideals—granted we have opinions and ideals? It is an obligation we owe to those from whom we have taken their share of happiness. There are not many who pay this debt, not many who comply with this law. People not only resist the law of love implicit in sacrifice, but they will to be selfish, and bad. But doesn't that make it all the more our duty, Nacha, to do what we can? We must win forgiveness for the wrongs we do our brothers, for the guilt of society in which we all share."
He stopped, and looked dreamily before him, as though he saw some luminous object in the distance. Then, after a moment of silence, he added:
"The work of one individual has tremendous value as an example. Good work is not lost. It arouses other souls; and each one of these will waken others, who, but for them, would continue to sleep. So, little by little, daylight will come; injustice will cease; and poverty will be a word."
Monsalvat was at work on two plays which Nacha helped him to copy. They proved to be somewhat incoherent compositions, full of anguish, and love, and pity. They excited keen interest among the theatrical managers to whom he submitted them but no one cared to produce them. Some one of the readers who examined them called the plays "anti-social"; and they were generally considered dangerous to established order. In truth, they contained too much human sympathy: but it may well be that justice, or even simple honesty, is a serious menace to society!
One Sunday afternoon Julieta came to call on Nacha. She was no longer the smiling Julieta of old. Bad luck had been haunting her footsteps of late; and for the last few weeks she had known what it was to go hungry. While she was telling Nacha her troubles Monsalvat came in. Julieta did not know him, and stopped short.
"It is my friend," said Nacha. "He can help you. Go on!"
Julieta, reassured as much by a glance at Monsalvat as by Nacha's words, told how her small savings had all been spent to help Sara who had suddenly developed a horrible disease.
"I thought I could earn more if I had to," said Julieta, "but I haven't been able to. I've had to give up my room at Lavalle Street; and they are going to put me out of the lodging house where I have been staying, because my rent isn't paid. I can't go out on the street! But I'm discouraged. What can I do? I had hoped to get away from this life somehow; and now it seems as though I would have to go deeper into it than ever before—and after seeing what has happened to poor Sara! Oh, I can't bear to think of it!"
"Everything is going to come out right for you," Monsalvat said to her gently. "What little I have is yours. Don't thank me. No, I shall be angry if you do. It isn't mine after all. No one is the owner of money. It's stupid to think so! Don't lose heart. I'm going to take care of all your troubles. No, it isn't only for you I am doing this. It's for myself, you see."
Monsalvat had received his salary that afternoon. He had just paid his rent; and he gave all that remained to Julieta, who let herself be persuaded finally to accept it. Then he left the girls alone.
As he went out of the door, he found, leaning against the wall opposite, his legs crossed, an ill-favored individual who looked at him with an impudent and sinister smile. Nacha could not endure this cross-eyed and thoroughly unprepossessing loafer, who, it was rumored, was a police spy. His small, close-set eyes, low forehead, crushed-in nose and vicious expression all suggested the jail bird; and Nacha could never see him without having a ghastly vision of all the crimes a man is capable of; nor was she alone in fearing him. But she learned on a certain occasion that he knew her past life, and the discovery kept her awake many nights. As the days passed without her hearing anything more from him, she put aside the worst of her fears. The man watched Monsalvat closely and even followed him on the street.
When Monsalvat returned to Nacha's room, Julieta had gone. Nacha was depressed and this he naturally attributed to Julieta's trouble. But Nacha was tormented by various concerns of her own, of which she never spoke. One was her wretched poverty. To eke out her salary she took in sewing, and was often at work until midnight. At a word from her Monsalvat would have given her every cent he had, and gladly have gone penniless and hungry. But Nacha had told him that she was earning enough to live on. She would not speak of her difficulties; besides if she did, Monsalvat would work himself into a fever of indignation against the exploiters of women workers.
But Nacha had other troubles too. Latterly a terrifying idea had taken possession of her: she had seen Pampa, and believed that he was again pursuing her. One afternoon as she left the store she caught a glimpse of him, and she slipped into the thick of the crowd waiting for a street-car. When she saw, however, that he had stopped on the corner and was looking this way and that for her, she hastily got into a cab. Once again she saw him prowling in the vicinity of the shop as she was going to work. She was terrified, and clutched her companion's arm so tight the girl gave an exclamation of pain. After that she met Arnedo every day. Sometimes he had a friend with him. Just the day before, as she was going into the store a little late, and alone, he spoke to her. Strange that he should remember her so tenderly! His voice had grown soft as he spoke her name, and his eyes seemed to look deep into hers. She trembled; and her fear prevented her from uttering a word; but, with terror, she realized that she could never feel indifferent to this man.
And at home, sitting opposite Monsalvat, she suffered torment, for the thought of Arnedo would not give her any peace. Her conscience seemed to have become an Inquisition; her thoughts, instruments of torture that hurt her physically, clouded her eyes, and kept her from working over her seams. Once, at midnight, while she was sewing, the evil thought which until then had remained something vague, distant, nebulous, suddenly took definite and horrible form. She struggled not to think what she did not want to think. She would rather have died than think it.
For it had occurred to her there in her room that night that it could not be her destiny to live the life that she was then leading. If it were, why couldn't she be happy? Why couldn't she have even peace? Why so much suffering? What was in store for her? What was she looking forward to, there? She told herself that this was only a transitory stage in her life, only a bridge perhaps, leading to something else. But whither? Why was she living there near that man? Marry him? No, she had never taken that seriously! That was a beautiful dream—a dream that she had no right to! Be his mistress then? Oh that, never! Nor did he desire it. Then she wondered what this emotion that she felt for him could be. Did she love him? She admired him: never had she believed there could be such a great soul as his. To her he represented all the Goodness in the world. But did she love him the other way—with her senses? Yes, perhaps, when she first met him in the cabaret! But not now! Now he was like a father, a brother, a son. She loved him too much to love him that way. And with what pity she loved him! For he was wasting his life for her, giving up his position, his friends, neglecting even his work, living alone and in poverty, all for her! Then the evil thought returned. Supposing she should run away? Supposing she should feel perfectly certain that she was destined not to be good, and should return to the old life? And there was Arnedo! What could he want of her? She compared the two men, Monsalvat, all soul, all gentleness, all idealism; and Arnedo, physical strength, brutality, materialism. Monsalvat attracted her soul, her thoughts—the best in her. She trembled to think that Pampa might again attract her physically, inflame her senses, rouse all the desires in short, which were the worst in her! She shuddered at the thought that Arnedo might regain the control over her he once possessed: and in this torment she wept for Monsalvat—and for herself.