“Particularly your prospective nephew,” replied the friar. “I don’t really know what is the matter with that young gentleman, but it seems as though he were watching us. Sometimes I feel tempted to send him to the deuce. Because if he and all the rest did not keep close to our heels, we should not be obliged to make use of this secrecy, which does not please me, my child, because it might give occasion to malicious interpretations; and it is not enough to be good, one must appear so also.”

“That’s true; but if I did not unbosom myself to you, I believe that I should die. There are certain things one cannot explain clearly in the confessional.”

“To be sure; well, now that we are here, let us hope that the Lord will bring us some good out of this bad business. My child, open your heart, and say all you wish. Here is Father Moreno to listen to you and advise you, not now as a confessor but as a friend. I am really your friend—you know that very well, so further words are useless.

“Well, Father, I have no better friend than you. I am so unfortunate that it is impossible for me to confide either in my father or my brother; we do not understand each other; there is a barrier—I do not know what. I believe that you already guess what I want to consult you about.”

The father smoothed his chin with his hand, as though in deep meditation.

“According to what you said to me, you marry in order to prevent greater evils. I believe that I have understood.”

“No, no, Father, it is not that. The evils that may occur here, I cannot now prevent. I have done all that I could; I have turned myself into a watchman, a police agent, a spy,—everything that one can turn one’s self into,—certainly a repugnant and sorrowful part to play. But I am convinced that it is impossible to protect a woman who will not protect herself, and that the whims of old men are harder to combat than those of children.”

My aunt hesitated a little.

“My papa,” she said, resolutely, at last, “is like a boy of fifteen. He is wild after that girl; blindly following her around, putting up with her mockery, and acting perfectly moon-struck if she makes a silly grimace at him. I should not mind it, if—at least—”

“You mean you would like to have him marry her?”

“Certainly. If the man who gave me being does not lose his soul, I shall feel resigned to all the rest. You know the trouble I had on DoÑa Andrea’s account. While she and my father lived—in that way—all I wanted was that they should get married. I should have my mother’s maid for a stepmother, but on the other hand papa would be living at peace with God. DoÑa Andrea is an unhappy being—believe me, she has a good heart. She has never shown the least disrespect for me, and has taken care of me with a real affection that I cannot describe to you. Only, she has no—what shall I say?—has no—”

“No moral sense.”

“That is it. She is naturally good, but she cannot discriminate between good and evil.”

“That is what I call being idiotic in respect of conscience,” said the father.

“Just so. So when she found that she was old and ugly, she considered it the most natural thing in the world to bring this girl to our house, without doubt, in order to regain her ascendency over my father, or in order that some member of her family might inherit that honorable post!”

“My child, as you are going to get married, it is better to speak plainly—so that we may understand each other. Formerly your father lived maritally with DoÑa Andrea, and now—he does not?”

“You are right; he does not now.”

“Well, then, it does not make much difference now whether your father marries her or not, if he has abandoned that sin. Still, so long as she remains here the scandal continues.”

“Oh, no, sir; there is no scandal at all! DoÑa Andrea is in such a condition that it seems to me she cannot scandalize any one,” replied my aunt, with a jocose and somewhat mischievous smile.

“So much the better, so much the better; though when people are bound to be scandalized, my daughter, they do not look to see whether a face is pretty or ugly.”

“Father, unhappily, there will soon be here another cause for scandal, and that is what they look at. Don’t believe that people do not notice it. Not a bit of it. I blush with shame whenever I perceive that anybody notices certain things.”

“You surely have no cause to be ashamed, my daughter. Shame was not made for you,” murmured the friar in so endearing and affectionate a tone that Carmen blushed slightly, though I believe it was with pleasure.

“I can’t help it,” she stammered. “A father is so sacred that you do not know how much a daughter suffers when she finds that she can no longer respect him, as she ought to do, according to God’s holy commandments. Outwardly I treat him with respect, but inwardly—no, I can’t live this way. There are times when I think I shall go mad!”

“Hoity, toity!” exclaimed the friar, gayly. “Mad; nothing less! I have already told you that your head is like a volcano. I suppose you refer to what you have already told me—CandidiÑa!”

“Yes, sir; he runs after her like a cadet. And I don’t know what to do, nor on whom to call. He has controlled himself during the last few days in the presence of his guests and of strangers; but when we were alone, all I can tell you about the way he pursues her does not do justice to it. I will not enter into details which are unseemly; suffice it to say that one morning I witnessed such a scene that I fell down on my knees at papa’s feet that night, and begged him, in the name of God and the Virgin, to marry that girl at once, or to send her away into service somewhere else.”

“Do you think that the girl gives him any encouragement?”

“Yes, Father, encouragement; yet at the same time, when things go too far she defends herself, and leaves me puzzled. Well, I am not obliged to look out for her. I have tried to persuade her; I have scolded her and given her good advice; I have her in my own room. Her own mother could not do more for her. What horrifies me is that my father,—believe me,—papa does not know what he is doing; he is crazy,—perfectly crazy. He is passionately in love with the girl; I counted upon that when I begged him to marry her; but he replied that the world—the people—and his social standing—oh, Father, I can bear it no longer! I cannot!”

“God bless me!” sighed the friar. “What folly! and, allow me to add, what stupidity! At his age—at his age!”

“Fancy it; he has even gone so far as to say, ‘I will not marry her, because that would be nonsense; but, if CandidiÑa leaves by one door, you shall leave by the other and go to your brother’s house.’ And he said it with such a tone and air that—why, I shed more tears that day, Father, than I should if my father had died! If he had died! Oh, I wish that he had died, if he were at peace with his Maker! I would rather see him dead a thousand times than this way—his gray hairs dishonored!”

As she said this, SeÑorita Aldao seemed to me very handsome. Her eyes flashed, and her nostrils dilated with enthusiasm and indignation. Her bosom rose and fell convulsively. The friar looked at her in amazement.

“You are more than right!” he exclaimed at last. “How much better it would be to die than to wallow in disgusting sins! Death is nature’s law; we all have to pay that tribute sooner or later; but, my child, at least let us refrain from paying another to the devil so that he may laugh at the way he cheats us. How slight a thing man is, my child, and for what vile toys he will go to destruction! Lucifer’s sin consisted in pride, an ugly sin, but it is not so vile, so indecent as—faugh!” and here the friar gave a start like a man seeing some disgusting animal.

“Unfortunately,” said the young girl, trying to calm herself, “there is a little of everything here, and pride plays an active part in this affair. If it were not for pride, papa would marry that girl who has turned his head so completely. People would laugh at him a little,—that is, a good deal,—but there would be no disgrace, no crime. I should not be obliged to submit to what has caused me such bitter sorrow ever since I reached the years of discretion. Furthermore, I should not have to——”

She hesitated, but finally added:

“I should not be obliged to get married.” Her revelation was of such serious import that the friar sat amazed, shaking his head and tightening his lips, as though saying to himself, “Bad, very bad.”

“So you——” he added, “CarmiÑa, let us speak without reserve, for we are here, in a sense, as though in the confessional. You are not marrying willingly?”

“Yes, Father, I marry willingly because I have made up my mind to do it, and when I make up my mind to do a thing—— I formed that resolution the day that my father told me that if CandidiÑa left the house, I should leave, too. Anything rather than hear and see what I have to. I have no other way of protesting. My filial respect ties my hands and even my tongue. But to sanction it by my presence; no, never!”

“And your brother?” asked the friar, eagerly.

“My brother—my brother has a child every year, and they need money, and my father gives it to them. That closes his eyes to everything; and he has even scolded me many times for urging papa to get married. He says that if he gets married he may have more children, and injure our prospects. I once thought of taking refuge with my brother, but his wife does not want me there, nor he neither. I shall not force my presence where it is not wanted.”

The friar remained silent for a few moments, his brow knit, and his hands pulling at the tassels of the cord which bound his waist. His face revealed the greatest anxiety, and he coughed and breathed heavily before venturing to speak, as though he were about to make some decisive and weighty remark.

“Well, my child,” he said, at last, “my advice is only what any person of ordinary judgment would give you. It is not a joke to get married, nor does it last only for a day. No, my child, it is the most decisive step of the whole life, for an honorable woman as you are, by the mercy of God. Tell me the truth, do you dislike that man?”

“Dislike him?”

Another long period of silence ensued. I held my breath. The rough branches of the yew tree cut into my flesh and the hand with which I was clinging to the tree began to get numb.

At length Carmen spoke in a changed tone:

“Dislike him? I do not know. What I do know is that I do not feel any great affection toward him, nor any of that enthusiastic—don’t get frightened, Father. I do not mean enthusiastic love. Let’s see if I can make my meaning clearer. I should like, when I get married, to be able to look on the husband whom I am to take, in the sight of God, as a person worthy of the respect of all the world. Father, do you think that Felipe is—that?”

“Daughter, I speak with entire candor. I have never heard that he has committed any crime, but his reputation is not very high in regard to political machinations, and he is not much liked. As you have asked me, I must tell you this.”

“That he is not much liked,” said Carmen, with remarkable sagacity, “cannot be due to political machinations, for in that respect let him who can win. So I think it is for some other reason. Have you noticed his face?”

“Yes, I have. It is—goodness, I do not know how to tell you, daughter!”

“It is the face of a Jew,” said Carmen, resolutely. “It may seem singular to you that I should say so,—I should dare say so only to you. It is a Jewish face, indeed; so marked that it cannot be mistaken. For that reason, when you asked me whether I disliked him, I was undecided. That face,—it has cost me a great deal to get accustomed to it. I don’t know whether he is ugly or good-looking, but that face——”

I was listening with all my might when, owing to a circumstance foreign to the conversation, I was seized with sudden anguish. The fact is, I felt the branch of which I was astride begin to creak with an ominous slowness as though notifying me that it was not made to hold birds of my size. Nevertheless, I kept on listening:

“Well, my child,” said the friar, resolutely, “if you feel such an antipathy or dislike toward him as you really seem to, you should not marry him. At least, consider whether you are able to go through with it. Reflect well on what a married woman’s condition is. Remember that the husband you take, whether he pleases you or not, is your life-long companion; the only man whom it is lawful for you to love, who will be with you one flesh,—that is what the Church says,—one flesh. He will be the father of your children, and you owe him not only fidelity but love; do you understand? I’ll repeat it to you,—love. Child, reflect, now that there is still time; don’t be obstinate. I know it would make a stir and trouble to break off the engagement, but so long as the indissoluble tie does not exist—pshaw! These things furnish food for foolish tongues for a couple of days and then are forgotten. While as for the other, my child, death alone,—only the death of one of the two,—can dissolve it. Do you understand what the sacrament of marriage signifies? Do you know what a husband is to a Christian woman? I want you to study that question well, my child. Don’t say afterward that your friend Moreno did not warn you in time!”

Just then I broke into a cold sweat. It was not fear; no, though the branch was breaking. The danger of falling from so great a height was not enough to frighten me at that moment; but I dreaded the mortification of being caught in such unworthy eavesdropping. For then I could see clearly that my eavesdropping was unworthy, my curiosity an affront, and my lying in ambush an outrage.

The cracking of the dry wood, that dull and agonizing cra-a-a-ck! cra-a-a-ck! seemed to say, in its thick and broken tones: “Impertinent meddler, gossip, Paul Pry!” I seemed to hear the Father’s disdainful voice lashing me with these scornful words: “I had already spotted you. I knew before that you were watching us. Fool, you thought that we were all complacent slaves of passion, and that this young lady and I—well, now you have seen that we are two decent people.”

Making up my mind to renounce hearing the rest of their dialogue, I tried to slide down the branch, mount astride the next, and, branch by branch, descend to the ball-room, and thence to the ground. The operation as a gymnastic exercise was not difficult; but it was impossible to carry it out without making any noise—noise which would surely attract the attention of the two speakers and immediately betray my hiding place. The attempts I made to measure the distance were causing a prolonged rustling of the leaves. My only choice was to keep calm, to hold out, not to breathe, to commend my soul to God, and to hope everything of the strength and good nature of that branch. Consequently, I tried not to bear my whole weight on it, and remained half suspended in the air, in a very painful position. What exasperated me most was not to be able to pay due attention to their conversation, which was then more animated than ever. I do not know whether I heard the last part very well; but I believe that the following is more or less what Carmen said:

“It is evident that we cannot do anything without God’s assistance, but I do not consider it vanity on my part to assure you that I shall fulfill the duties I assume. If you knew, Father, how that word duty sounds to me! I assure you with all the truthfulness of my soul, if I imagined that I should fail in my duty toward him, as time goes on, I would a thousand times rather die first. No; neither my husband, nor my father, nor God, shall ever have any cause of complaint against me. In that way I shall live—or shall die happy. If it were to be otherwise, I would kill myself! I am marrying with my eyes open. Circumstances have placed me in this peculiar position—well, then, with my eyes open, I will be good. I don’t want to make excuses beforehand; I will be good, even if the earth should sink!”

Let the reader smile; but these words made me wild with enthusiasm; so much so that I even forgot my dangerous situation. I arose, as though to applaud her, reaching out my hands toward my angel of an aunt, when, by an involuntary movement, I fell heavily upon the branch; a terrible noise was heard, which seemed to me like the blast of an unchained tempest, and I instantly became aware that I was falling, slowly falling, the heavy, thick foliage seeming to retard my fall, though I scratched and bruised myself fearfully on the sharp points of the smaller branches and the knobs on the larger ones. It seemed as though I was a century falling; and in the midst of my bewilderment I thought I heard overhead, up in the tree, exclamations, cries, and a confused clamor.

Finally, my descent grew faster and faster. I tore some of my clothing, and at last fell flat on my face on the turf. I bounced up like a ball, and went off, running like a hunted deer. What I wanted was to hide myself—to disappear—to cover up, if possible, my wrong-doing and its ludicrous result.

This thought spurred me on, and gave me wings, and even sharpened my wits, leading me to plunge into the covered walk through the fruit trees, where they could not see me from the yew. From that to the little grove was but a step, and from the grove to the arbor covered with honeysuckle, no distance at all. Into that I rushed, and without paying any attention to my scratched and bloody hands or my bruised condition, excited, beside myself, I lowered myself over the wall, and, once out of the orchard, did not consider myself safe till, pushing on through short cuts and cross-paths, I reached the beach. “A perfect alibi!—I was bathing!”

I undressed myself in a twinkling.