Lucía Gonzalez.
To those familiar with the conversational style of Father Urtazu, and who desire to have some knowledge of the epistolary style employed by so learned a man, the following letter will afford satisfaction:
Lucigüela of my sins: Ah, child, how well we know how to represent things so as to put our dear little selves in the best light! Pity, eh? I’ll give you pity! You did wrong, and very wrong, to write that letter without your husband’s knowledge, and I am not surprised that he should have behaved like a very dragon about it. You should have asked his permission; and if he had refused it—patience! Did I not tell you, child, that to be a good wife and to make the journey in peace you should put a couple of arrobas of patience in your trunks? We forget to do that, and this is the result. Go, unlucky child, and buy a supply of patience now where you are, and feed upon it, for you stand sorely in need of it. Your husband ought not to have insulted your good, kind father (although in some respects he deserves it, and I know myself the reason why), but remember that he was angry, and when one is excited,—I, who have a hot temper myself, can make allowance for him! As I said before, patience, patience, and no more clandestine notes. What call had you to turn preacher? And there is no need to grieve. God tightens the cord, but he does not strangle; he is no executioner, and perhaps when you least expect it, he will send you consolation—as a gift, and not because of your own merits. And good-by, for the mail is closing; and besides, I have the lungs of a frog on the slide of a microscope, and I am going to study the manner in which those little people breathe. Remember to say a few prayers, eh? And that will take down our pride a little. The blessing of God and of San Ignacio be with you, child.
Alonzo Urtazu, S.J.
When these counsels reached her, Lucía had already done by instinct what Father Urtazu advised her to do. Mild and gentle now as a lamb, her every glance was a mute petition for pardon. Miranda persistently avoided looking at her, treating her with icy contempt. From the constant strain on her feelings, and her continued attendance on Pilar, the roses in Lucía’s cheeks had turned to lilies, and she had grown noticeably thinner, although her appetite continued good. One morning Duhamel called her aside, and said to her in his Portuguese-French.
“You must take care of your health, menina. Conservar-se. Vae cair doente. Less watching, less fatigue, regular sleep. So much nursing altera-the a saude.”
“Do you think I shall take Pilar’s disease?” asked Lucía, in so tranquil a voice that Duhamel stared at her.
“No, it is not that.” And the physician, lowering his voice still more, entered into a long and serious conversation with her.
That night Lucía answered Father Urtazu’s letter in these words:
Dear Father: Blessed be your lips! for it almost seems as if you had the gift of prophecy, so true were your words when you said that I should receive consolation. I am wild with joy, and I hardly know what I am writing.... A child! what happiness, Father Urtazu! To-morrow I am going to begin working on the baby-clothes, that the little angel may not run any risk of coming into the world, like our Lord, without swaddling clothes in which to wrap him. I am putting a great deal of nonsense in this letter and a few tears, too, but not like the last—these are tears of joy.