“Father, I wish I were in her place,” murmured Lucía, pointing to the dead girl.
“Holy Virgin! No, child. You must live in order to serve God by fulfilling his will. Good-by for a while, eh?”
When Lucía went down into the garden, to her eyes, fatigued with weeping, it seemed less sickly-looking and arid than usual. The yucas raised their majestic heads wearing perennial crowns; the plants exhaled a faint rural odor, more grateful, at any rate, than the odor of the wax. The sun was sinking low in the west, but his rays still gilded the points of the lance-shaped heads of the railings. Lucía, from habit, seated herself under the plane tree, which the blasts of winter had despoiled of its last withered leaf. The quiet of this solitary retreat brought familiar thoughts again to her mind. No, Lucía could weep no more; her dry eyes could not shed another tear; what she desired was rest--rest. God and nature had forbidden her to wish for death; so that, employing an ingenious subterfuge, she wished for a long sleep, a sleep without end. While she was absorbed in these thoughts, she saw Sardiola running toward her.
“Señorita! Señorita!” The good Biscayan was panting for breath.
“What is the matter?” she asked, languidly raising her head.
“He is--there.” Lucía sat erect, rigid as a statue, and pressed her hands to her heart.
“The Señorito--Señorito Ignacio. He arrived this morning--he is going away again to-night--where, no one knows--he refused to see me--Engracia says he looks worse even than when he left for Brittany.”
“Sardiola,” said Lucía, in a faint voice, feeling her heart contract until it seemed to be no bigger than a hazelnut; “Sardiola----”
“I must go back, they need me at every moment. On account of to-day’s misfortune there are a hundred errands to be done. Can I do anything for you, Señorita?”
“Nothing.” And Lucía’s faint voice died away in her throat. There was a buzzing sound in her ears, and railing, walls, plane tree and yucas seemed to whirl around her. There are in life supreme moments like this, when feeling, long suppressed, rises mighty and triumphant, and proclaims itself master of the soul. It was this already; but the soul was perhaps ignorant, or only vaguely conscious of its subjection, when suddenly it feels itself stamped, as with a red-hot iron, with the seal of its bondage. Although the comparison may appear irreverent, I shall say that the same thing happens here, in a measure, as in conversions; the soul wavers, undecided for a time, knowing neither what course it is taking, nor what is the cause of its disquiet, until a voice from on high, a dazzling light, suddenly come to dispel every doubt. The assault is swift, the resistance faint, the victory sure.