“Your letter,” objected Lucía simply, “would not have served to console him, while mine would; and as it was not a question of etiquette but of——”
“Hold your tongue,” cried Miranda rudely; “hold your tongue and don’t talk nonsense,” he continued, with that roughness which even men of culture do not hesitate to display when speaking to their wives. “Before marrying you should have learned how to conduct yourself in society, so as not to bring ridicule upon me by committing silly actions, which are in bad taste. But I have no right to complain; what better could I have expected when I married the daughter of a retailer of oil and vinegar!”
Miranda walked with long strides, dragging rather than supporting his wife, and they had now almost reached the châlet. At this offensive speech Lucía, with pale cheeks and flashing eyes, freed herself violently from his clasp, and stood still in the middle of the road.
“My father,” she cried, in a loud voice, making an effort to keep back her sobs, “is an honest man, and he has taught me to be honest, too.”
“Well, one would never have known it,” replied Miranda, with a bitter and ironical laugh. “To judge by appearances he has taught you to palm off the spurious article for the genuine as he himself probably did with his provisions.”
At this last stab Lucía rushed forward, passed through the gate, hurried up the stairs as quickly as she had a short time before descended them, and shutting herself in her room gave free vent to her anguish. Of the thoughts that passed through her mind during this long night, which she spent extended on a sofa, the following letter, assuredly not intended by its author for publication and still less intended to awaken the applause of future generations, will give some idea:
Dear Father Urtazu: The fits of rage you warned me about are beginning to come, and that sooner and with more frequency than I had thought possible. The worst of it is, that thinking well over the matter, it seems to me that I myself am in some sort to blame. Don’t laugh at me, for pity’s sake, for I am trying to keep my tears back while I write, and this blot, which I hope you will excuse, is even caused by one of them falling upon the paper. I am going to tell you everything as if I were in Leon, kneeling before you in the confessional. The mother of Señor de Artegui is dead. You already know from my previous letters that this is a terrible misfortune, for it may bring with it others—which I do not wish even to think about, father. In short, I reflected that Señor de Artegui would be very sad, very sad, and that perhaps no one would think of saying a kind word to him and especially of speaking to him of our Lord, in whom he cannot but believe—is it not so, father?—but whom he may forget, perhaps, in the bitterness of his grief. Moved by these considerations I wrote him a letter, consoling him as best I could—I wish you could have seen it. I said a great many things in it that I think were very fine and very comforting. I told him that God sends us sorrows so as to make us turn to Him in our grief; that then it is He is most with us—in short, all that you have taught me. I told him, besides, to be assured that he was not the only one who mourned for that poor lady, that saint; that I mingled my tears with his, although I knew that she was now in glory, and that I envied her. Ah, and that is the truth, father! Who so happy as she? To die, to go to heaven! When shall I attain such happiness!
But to return to my story. I went to post the letter and Miranda followed me and seized me by the arm, and heaped insults upon me, calling me all sorts of bad names, and, what I felt more than all, insulting my father. Poor, dear father! How is he to blame for what I may do? Tell him nothing of all this, Father Urtazu, for the love of God! I was so indignant that I answered him haughtily, and then went and shut myself up into my room. I feel as crushed as if the house had fallen in upon me.
My health is beginning to suffer from all these things. Tell Señor Velez de Rada that when he sees me he will no longer be pleased with my looks. My head is dizzy just now and I often have severe fits of giddiness. Good-by, father; advise me, for I am bewildered by all this. Sometimes I think I have done wrong, and again I think I am not in any way to blame. Is pity a sin? When I look into my heart I find only pity there; nothing more.
Excuse the writing, for my hand trembles greatly. Write soon, for charity’s sake, for we are shortly to leave this place, and I should like to receive a letter from you before we go. Your respectful daughter in Jesus Christ,