“Will end as their father did,” replied Elias in a low voice. “When misfortune has once singled out a family all its members must perish,—when the lightning strikes a tree the whole is reduced to ashes.”
Ibarra fell silent on hearing this, so Elias took his leave. When the youth found himself alone he lost the serene self-possession he had maintained in the pilot’s presence. His sorrow pictured itself on his countenance. “I, I have made her suffer,” he murmured.
He dressed himself quickly and descended the stairs. A small man, dressed in mourning, with a large scar on his left cheek, saluted him humbly, and detained him on his way.
“What do you want?” asked Ibarra.
“Sir, my name is Lucas, and I’m the brother of the man who was killed yesterday.”
“Ah, you have my sympathy. Well?”
“Sir, I want to know how much you’re going to pay my brother’s family.”
“Pay?” repeated the young man, unable to conceal his disgust. “We’ll talk of that later. Come back this afternoon, I’m in a hurry now.”
“Only tell me how much you’re willing to pay,” insisted Lucas.
“I’ve told you that we’ll talk about that some other time. I haven’t time now,”
repeated Ibarra impatiently.
“You haven’t time now, sir?” asked Lucas bitterly, placing himself in front of the young man. “You haven’t time to consider the dead?”
“Come this afternoon, my good man,” replied Ibarra, restraining himself. “I’m on my way now to visit a sick person.”
“Ah, for the sick you forget the dead? Do you think that because we are poor—”
Ibarra looked at him and interrupted, “Don’t try my patience!” then went on his way.
Lucas stood looking after him with a smile full of hate. “It’s easy to see that you’re the grandson of the man who tied my father out in the sun,” he muttered between his teeth. “You still have the same blood.”
Then with a change of tone he added, “But, if you pay well—friends!”
Chapter XLII
The Espadañas
The fiesta is over. The people of the town have again found, as in every other year, that their treasury is poorer, that they have worked, sweated, and stayed awake much without really amusing themselves, without gaining any new friends, and, in a word, that they have dearly bought their dissipation and their headaches. But this matters nothing, for the same will be done next year, the same the coming century, since it has always been the custom.
In Capitan Tiago’s house sadness reigns. All the windows are closed, the inmates move about noiselessly, and only in the kitchen do they dare to speak in natural tones. Maria Clara, the soul of the house, lies sick in bed and her condition is reflected in all the faces, as the sorrows of the mind may be read in the countenance of an individual.
“Which seems best to you, Isabel, shall I make a poor-offering to the cross of Tunasan or to the cross of Matahong?” asks the afflicted father in a low voice.
“The Tunasan cross grows while the Matahong cross sweats which do you think is more miraculous?”
Aunt Isabel reflects, shakes her head, and murmurs, “To grow, to grow is a greater miracle than to sweat. All of us sweat, but not all of us grow.”
“That’s right, Isabel; but remember that to sweat for the wood of which bench-legs are made to sweat—is not a small miracle. Come, the best thing will be to make poor-offerings to both crosses, so neither will resent it, and Maria will get better sooner. Are the rooms ready? You know that with the doctors is coming a new gentleman, a distant relative of Padre Damaso’s. Nothing should be lacking.”
At the other end of the dining-room are the two cousins, Sinang and Victoria,
who have come to keep the sick girl company. Andeng is helping them clean a silver tea-set.
“Do you know Dr. Espadaña?” the foster-sister of Maria Clara asks Victoria curiously.
“No,” replies the latter, “the only thing that I know about him is that he charges high, according to Capitan Tiago.”
“Then he must be good!” exclaims Andeng. “The one who performed an operation on Doña Maria charged high; so he was learned.”
“Silly!” retorts Sinang. “Every one who charges high is not learned. Look at Dr.
Guevara; after performing a bungling operation that cost the life of both mother and child, he charged the widower fifty pesos. The thing to know is how to charge!”
“What do you know about it?” asks her cousin, nudging her.
“Don’t I know? The husband, who is a poor sawyer, after losing his wife had to lose his home also, for the alcalde, being a friend of the doctor’s, made him pay.
Don’t I know about it, when my father lent him the money to make the journey to Santa Cruz?” 1
The sound of a carriage stopping in front of the house put an end to these conversations. Capitan Tiago, followed by Aunt Isabel, ran down the steps to welcome the new arrivals: the Doctor Don Tiburcio de Espadaña, his señora the Doctora Doña Victorina de los Reyes de De Espadaña, and a young Spaniard of pleasant countenance and agreeable aspect.
Doña Victorina was attired in a loose silk gown embroidered with flowers and a hat with a huge parrot half-crushed between blue and red ribbons. The dust of the road mingled with the rice-powder on her cheeks seemed to accentuate her wrinkles. As at the time we saw her in Manila, she now supported her lame husband on her arm.
“I have the pleasure of introducing to you our cousin, Don Alfonso Linares de Espadaña,” said Doña Victorina, indicating their young companion. “The
gentleman is a godson of a relative of Padre Damaso’s and has been private secretary to all the ministers.”
The young man bowed politely and Capitan Tiago came very near to kissing his hand.
