“My father,” she cried, in a loud voice, making an effort to keep back her sobs, “is an honest man, and he has taught me to be honest, too.”
“Well, one would never have known it,” replied Miranda, with a bitter and ironical laugh. “To judge by appearances he has taught you to palm off the spurious article for the genuine as he himself probably did with his provisions.”
At this last stab Lucía rushed forward, passed through the gate, hurried up the stairs as quickly as she had a short time before descended them, and shutting herself in her room gave free vent to her anguish. Of the thoughts that passed through her mind during this long night, which she spent extended on a sofa, the following letter, assuredly not intended by its author for publication and still less intended to awaken the applause of future generations, will give some idea:
DEAR FATHER URTAZU: The fits of rage you warned me about are beginning to come, and that sooner and with more frequency than I had thought possible. The worst of it is, that thinking well over the matter, it seems to me that I myself am in some sort to blame. Don’t laugh at me, for pity’s sake, for I am trying to keep my tears back while I write, and this blot, which I hope you will excuse, is even caused by one of them falling upon the paper. I am going to tell you everything as if I were in Leon, kneeling before you in the confessional. The mother of Señor de Artegui is dead. You already know from my previous letters that this is a terrible misfortune, for it may bring with it others--which I do not wish even to think about, father. In short, I reflected that Señor de Artegui would be very sad, very sad, and that perhaps no one would think of saying a kind word to him and especially of speaking to him of our Lord, in whom he cannot but believe--is it not so, father?--but whom he may forget, perhaps, in the bitterness of his grief. Moved by these considerations I wrote him a letter, consoling him as best I could--I wish you could have seen it. I said a great many things in it that I think were very fine and very comforting. I told him that God sends us sorrows so as to make us turn to Him in our grief; that then it is He is most with us--in short, all that you have taught me. I told him, besides, to be assured that he was not the only one who mourned for that poor lady, that saint; that I mingled my tears with his, although I knew that she was now in glory, and that I envied her. Ah, and that is the truth, father! Who so happy as she? To die, to go to heaven! When shall I attain such happiness!