A MIRAGE.
Inez de Aguilera always shared the sleeping-room of her grandmother, and had often to minister during the night to the aged and imbecile lady. It had never occurred to the Spanish girl to regard this duty as a hardship, but she had never felt such sweet pleasure in its performance as she did after listening to the words of her Heavenly Master which had been read aloud by Alcala. He who had said, "Love one another as I have loved you," would, Inez hoped, be pleased with her care of the aged relative whom He had intrusted to her charge.
A trial to those who attended on Donna Benita was the poor old lady's inability to understand the change in the circumstances of her family; she who had come as a wealthy bride to a wealthy hidalgo, sorely missed, and never ceased to expect, the luxuries connected with the possession of riches. If Donna Benita desired to breathe the air in the Prado, how was it that carriages with splendid horses were not ready at her command? Where was the train of attendants that should wait on the lady of a Spanish grandee? What had become of her jewels, her bracelets of diamonds, her chaplet of pearls? Old Teresa lost patience when she had to repeat for the hundredth time to her imbecile mistress that her treasures had all been carried off, nearly fifty years before, by the infidel French soldiers, who had dared to eat their puchero and smoke their cigarillos in the patio of the palace of the Aguileras.
Inez never lost her patience with the feeble invalid, but she was pained when, on the morning following Alcala's first meeting for family devotion, Donna Benita more fretfully than usual complained of the want of the luxuries which her grandchildren had not the means of providing.
"How I am neglected by all of you!" murmured the aged lady. "Have I not told you these many times to bring me my goblet of chased gold, filled with good Xeres wine? Where is it—why do you keep it from me? There is no one to do my bidding,—no one cares to bring me the delicate panada which is, as you know, my favourite dish. I am tired of chocolate, and toast, and watery puchero! Every day seems a fast-day here!"
"You shall have something nice, very nice, to-day, dear grandmother," said Inez, respectfully kissing the old lady's hand. "Teresa yesterday brought home from the market a splendid basketful of good things." And Inez glided out of the room, asking herself as she did so, "When shall we find means of so filling that basket again?"
The kitchen, which was situated at the remotest part of the mansion of the Aguileras, was very spacious, and from its emptiness now appeared very dreary. There were scarcely as many utensils left in the place as would have supplied the tent of a wandering Gitano. And yet in that kitchen, in former days, banquets had been prepared to furnish a table at which a hundred guests had sat down.
Teresa's bent, withered form was stooping over the fire, which, like the inmates of the mansion, was very scantily fed. The step of Inez was so light that the old woman did not hear it, and she was not aware that the señorita was at her side, when she flung on the fagots a small bound volume. Inez darted forward, with an exclamation of indignation, just in time to snatch unharmed from the fire the New Testament of her brother.
"Why do you presume to burn the treasured book of Don Alcala?" exclaimed the maiden, pressing the volume to her breast.