Elías entered and remained standing in silence.
“Ah, it’s you!” exclaimed Ibarra in Tagalog when he recognized him. “Excuse me for making you wait, I didn’t notice that it was you. I’m making an important experiment.”
“I don’t want to disturb you,” answered the youthful pilot. “I’ve come first to ask you if there is anything I can do for you in the province of Batangas, for which I am leaving immediately, and also to bring you some bad news.”
Ibarra questioned him with a look.
“Capitan Tiago’s daughter is ill,” continued Elías quietly, “but not seriously.”
“That’s what I feared,” murmured Ibarra in a weak voice. “Do you know what is the matter with her?”
“A fever. Now, if you have nothing to command—”
“Thank you, my friend, no. I wish you a pleasant journey. But first let me ask you a question—if it is indiscreet, do not answer.”
Elías bowed.
“How were you able to quiet the disturbance last night?” asked Ibarra, looking steadily at him.
“Very easily,” answered Elías in the most natural manner. “The leaders of the commotion were two brothers whose father died from a beating given him by the Civil Guard. One day I had the good fortune to save them from the same hands into which their father had fallen, and both are accordingly grateful to me. I appealed to them last night and they undertook to dissuade the rest.”
“And those two brothers whose father died from the beating—”
“Will end as their father did,” replied Elías 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 Elías 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!”
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. María 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 María will get better sooner. Are the rooms ready? You know that with the doctors is coming a new gentleman, a distant relative of Padre Dámaso’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 María 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 María charged high; so he was learned.”
“Silly!” retorts Sinang. “Everyone 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,
