“And now I serve a doting old man, and I am the mistress of the house.”
temperate climate. Here were no sad parting scenes. It was not the good-by of the sailor, the leave-taking of the soldier departing for the war, the homesick farewell of the emigrant. Those who were going were joyous and excited; those who remained behind, outwardly gay. Only, at one end of the train, at the door of a first-class carriage, could be seen a group of four or five persons, exchanging long and lingering embraces. It was composed of two men, one of them young, the other already in the decline of life, with bowed heads but erect forms, and three ladies, two young, the third a white-haired old lady, who frequently applied their handkerchiefs to their reddened eyes. Inside the car was a nurse, holding an infant in her arms. Lain Calvo approached Doña Aurora and said to her, pointing to the group:
“Do you see the Rojases there? Fanatics to the end, to death. They have transferred the son again to Marineda on account of that affair with the Minister, and even if he knew he was going to die of want, he would travel first-class, through respect for his office. If they transfer him a third time, he says he will send in his resignation. And they have paid off Rojas himself already. Haven’t you heard of it? He was put on the retired list a week ago.”
“What do you tell me?” exclaimed Señora de Pardiñas, with genuine sorrow. “Heaven help us! Unhappy people! Where will that poor Matilde Rojas find a man who will be willing to marry her without a penny? I declare I shall have that family in my thoughts during the whole of the journey. What a world this is, Don Nicanor!”
Doña Aurora tried to make her way toward the group to shake hands with the ladies of the Rojas family, but it was not possible, the warning bell sounded, the engine snorted, and wheelbarrows, laden with baggage checked for the train, were passing on all sides. Rogelio, who was on the train, reached out his hand to assist his mother, who ascended the steps slowly, smiling because a flounce of her dress had caught on one of them, and the noise made by the starting of the train drowned the voice of Lain Calvo as he cried:
“Beware of the girls of Vigo, Rogelio! they are tempting morsels, my boy!”
The train, swaying gently, hurried on its way. Evening closed in with serene splendor, and Rogelio as he looked out of the window fancied he could already descry the fresh Galician valleys, the leafy chestnut trees, the blue waters girdling the most beautiful country in the world.
But he did not perceive Esclavita, who, from the other side of the platform, followed the train with her eyes until it passed, swift and majestic, from her sight. When the last black smoke-wreath had disappeared in the distance, trembling as if with cold, she turned her steps slowly toward the city, resolved that the sun, which was just sinking below the horizon, should never again rise for her. Let us leave the unhappy girl, for, however hard we might try we could never dissuade her from her purpose. Don Gabriel Pardo, who is fond of generalizing in a dogmatic way, and who, in support of a favorite theory, will make use of the most illogical arguments, would tell us, if we asked him to account for this tragedy, that the mental aberration which leads to suicide is a natural outcome of the melancholy temperament of the Celtic race, that great martyr of history; just as if the newspapers did not every day record similar cases of suicide in every province of Spain.
