Читать книгу Chata and Chinita. A Novel онлайн

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“Herlinda,” she began, “this is sad news; but remember—” she paused, looked with stern disapprobation, then her superb self-possession giving way, she rushed to her daughter and clasped her arm. “Rise! rise!” she cried; “this excess of emotion shames you and me. This is folly. Rise, I say! He could never have been anything, child, to thee!”

Herlinda did not move, she did not even look up. She had always feared her mother; had trembled at her slightest word of blame; had been like wax under her hand. Yet now she was as marble; her hands had dropped on her lap; she was rigid to the touch; only the deep moans that burst from her white lips proved that she lived.

The attitude was expressive of such utter despair that it was of itself a revelation; and presently the moans formed themselves into words: “My God! my God! I am undone! he is dead! he is dead!”

The words bore a terrible significance to the listeners. Doña Isabel turned her eyes upon Feliz, and read upon her face the thought that had forced its way to her own mind. Her face paled; she dropped her daughter’s arm and drew back. The act itself was an accusation. Perhaps the girl felt it so. She suddenly wrung her hands distractedly, and sprang to her feet, exclaiming, “My husband! my husband! Let me go to him! he cannot be dead! he is not dead!”