Then followed an account of the attentions lavished by the son upon his mother during her last illness.
“I fancy I can see them now. There, there where you are sitting, Doña Armanda; and he just here where I am standing, be it said with all respect. Well, he would bring her down into the garden and he would place her feet on a stool and put a dozen pillows of all sizes and shapes behind her head, to help the poor lady to breathe easier. And the potions! and the draughts!--digitalis here, atropina there. But it was all of no use--at last the poor lady died. Would you believe that Don Ignacio showed no extravagant grief? He is like a well; he keeps everything inside, so that, having no outlet, it suffocates him. But he did not deceive me with his calmness, for when he said to me, ‘Sardiola, will you watch by her with me to-night,’ I thought of--see what a foolish fancy, Señorita--but I thought of a cornet in our ranks who used to play a famous reveille, that was so clear and full and beautiful; and one day he played out of tune, and as we laughed at him he took his cornet and blew it and said, ‘Boys, my poor little instrument has met with a misfortune, and it has cracked.’ Well, the same difference of sound that I noticed in the cornet of that fool, Triguillos, I noticed in the voice of the Señorito. You know what a sonorous voice he has, that it would be a pleasure to hear him give the word of command; but that day his voice was--well, cracked. In short, he himself arrayed Doña Armanda in her shroud, and he and I sat up with her, and at daybreak off to Brittany in a special train,--with the body in a lignum-vitæ coffin, trimmed with silver,--to the old castle, to bury the poor lady among her parents, her grandparents, and all the rest of her ancestors.”
Lucía, who, her work fallen on her lap, had been listening with all her faculties, now concentrated them in her eyes to put a mute question to Sardiola. The quick-witted Biscayan answered it at once.
“He has never come back since and no one knows what he intends to do. Engracia has not had a word from him. Although, indeed, for that matter, he never tells his plans to a living soul. Engracia is there alone by herself, for he dismissed all the other servants, rewarding them well, before he went away. She attends to the little, the nothing, indeed, there is to attend to, opening the windows occasionally, so that the dampness may not have it all its own way with the furniture,--passing a duster----”