“Yes, in Leon. If he were to know of what has happened, he would be terribly distressed. After all the charges and the advice he gave me! To beware of thieves—not to get sick—not to go in the sun—not to get wet. When I think of it——”
“Is your father an old man?”
“He is getting on in years, but he is strong and well-preserved, and handsomer in my eyes than gold. I have the good luck to have the best father in all Spain—he has no will but mine.”
“You are an only child, perhaps?”
“Yes, Señor, and I lost my mother when I was but that high,” and Lucía held out her open hand, palm downward, on a level with her knee. “Why, I was not even weaned when my mother died! And see! that is the only misfortune that has ever happened to me; for, except in that, there may be plenty of happy people in the world, but no one could be happier than I have been.”
Artegui fixed on her his deep and imperious eyes.
“You were happy?” he repeated, as if echoing the young girl’s thought.
“Yes, indeed; Father Urtazu used sometimes to say to me, ‘Take care, child, God is paying you in advance; and afterward, when you die, do you know what he is going to say to you? That there is nothing owing to you.’”
“So that,” said Artegui, “you missed nothing in your quiet life in Leon? You wished for nothing?”
“Yes, sometimes I had longings, but without knowing precisely what for. I think now that what I wanted was change—to travel. But I was never impatient, because I always felt that sooner or later I should obtain what I wished. Was I not right? Father Urtazu used to laugh at me sometimes, saying, ‘Patience, every autumn brings its fruit.’”