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Doña Feliz watched her with deep, inquiring eyes. Her child stood there, a voiceless pleader, her utter abandonment of grief appealing to the heart of the mother; but between them was an impregnable wall of pride and a cloud of possibilities which confused and distracted her. She came to no determination, made no resolve, but clasping her hands over her eyes, stood as if a gulf had opened in her path,—from which she could not turn, and over which she dared not pass. Slowly, at last, she dropped her arms, resumed her usual aspect of composure, and passed from the room. For some moments the little group she had left remained motionless. A profound stillness reigned throughout the house. Time itself seemed arrested, and the one word breathed through the silence seemed to describe the whole world to those within the walls,—“dead! dead! dead!”
V.
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As Doña Isabel Garcia turned from her daughter’s apartment, she stepped into a corridor flooded with the dazzling sunshine of a perfect morning, and as she passed on in her long black dress, the heavily beamed roof interposing between her uncovered head and the clear and shining blue of the sky, there was something almost terrible in the stony gaze with which she met the glance of the woman-servant who hurried after her to know if she would as usual break her fast in the little arbor near the fountain. It terrified the woman, who drew back with a muttered “Pardon, Señora!” as the lady swept by her, and entered her own chamber.