“As for her, she is a saint!” repeated Joanna.
“The trouble with her is her temper,” repeated Juliana. “She is always boiling over. I never go out without leaving everything in order; but she is never satisfied. The other day she began to iron. Very well; I took off my hat and would not let her. Do you know what ails her? Want of something to do, not having children; for she has no wish unsatisfied—”
She paused, glanced at her foot, and added, with an air of satisfaction,—
“Nor I either;” and she leaned back in her chair.
Joanna began to sing. She did not want disputes, but she found in all this something out of the way,—Juliana, always in the street or in her own room, working for herself, without caring a straw for anything, leaving things to go as they would, and the poor mistress ironing, sweeping. No; there must be some mystery here. But her Pedro, whom she consulted on the matter, said to her good-humoredly, twisting his little mustache,—“Let them settle it between themselves. Try to amuse yourself, and don’t mix yourself up in other people’s affairs. The place is a good one; try to profit by your opportunities.”
But Joanna secretly felt her dislike for the Senhora Juliana increase. She was enraged at her assumption of importance, at the luxury of her room, at her continual running out, at her giving herself the airs of a fine lady; she did not refuse to perform her obligations for her, because this brought her presents from the senhora; but what an antipathy she had to her! It was some consolation, however, to have a handsome young fellow to restore her to good-humor, and the place, too, possessed many advantages. Pedro was right.
Juliana was now more cautious. The scene in the laundry had frightened her; for, after all, a scandal might make her lose her place. She refrained from going out for some days, and was very industrious in the house; but when she saw Luiza resign herself to her fate, she surrendered herself almost feverishly to the pleasures of self-indulgence and the delights of vengeance. She began once more to go out, to shut herself up in her room, to sew, leaving the mistress to put up with it. In Jorge’s presence she placed some restraint upon herself; she was afraid of him; but no sooner did she hear the door close behind him in the morning than she left her sweeping, or whatever else she might be doing, and devoted herself to her own affairs. Luiza was there to finish her work!
Luiza’s health, meantime, went from bad to worse; suddenly, and without any cause, she began to suffer from ephemeral fevers; she grew thin, and her fits of sadness began to cause Jorge some anxiety. She laid the blame of it all on her nerves. “What can this be, Sebastião?” was the constant question of Jorge, who remembered with terror that Luiza’s mother had died of an affection of the heart.
The neighbors had learned from Joanna that the wife of the engineer was in ill health. Senhor Paula accounted for it in the following manner.
“The whole trouble is the mind,” he said, nodding his head with a profound air. “Do you know what is the matter with her, Senhora Helena? Too many novels on the brain. I see her from early morning with a novel in her hand. She sits all day reading novels; and there is the result. Cracked!”