This domestic conspiracy was kept a profound secret. DoÑa Aurora was silent, for women know how to keep a secret when they resolve to do so, especially if their affections are concerned, and Don Gaspar did not open his lips because he dreaded more than the cholera the jokes and insinuations of the Crown Solicitor, and no less—if we must betray the secrets of his household—the anger of his daughter Felisa. The latter, suspicious as a wife, distrusting the sociable and gallant disposition of the old man, had made it her business to provide him with the ugliest, most ignorant, and worst-tempered Maritornes to be found, for she always saw in the distance the menacing shadow of a stepmother. Until Felisa should have started on her voyage to the fifth division of the globe, the old man did not dare even to hint at his desire of taking into his service the gentle and pretty Esclavita. It was with the greatest difficulty that he was able to control his impatience and wait for this event, for his old age was a second childhood. Capricious and impatient as a child, if he yielded to his impulses, he would stamp upon the floor whenever anything interfered with the gratification of his desires. The outlet he sought for his impatience was a tÊte-À-tÊte with DoÑa Aurora before the arrival of the other visitors, when he would talk to her ramblingly, as old people are wont to talk, of his plans for the future, of the comfort he should enjoy with Esclavita to wait upon him, of the favors he would heap upon her, of how easy it would be to wait on an old man like him, without any family, and many other things of the same kind. And when the good man, owing to the presence of others, was unable to dilate on his favorite theme, he gave his excellent friend glances and winks of intelligence. He smiled at her without any cause, and, in short, sought to give vent to his exuberant and boyish gayety. “Heaven grant he may keep his reason,” said SeÑora de PardiÑas to herself. “I don’t know why we should wonder at the craziness of youth, when old men can act in this way. No boy could be more deeply smitten. I declare, if he is not wild for his daughter to take herself off, so that he may get Esclavita at once. If I did not know that he is a really excellent man and that the girl, on her part, is incapable of laying a trap for him, I should be a little uneasy, for no one can tell where these things will end, and if he should take it into his head to marry!—” The idea of Don Gaspar marrying a girl of twenty-five was so absurd that SeÑora de PardiÑas laughed to herself, and the monologue ended by the good lady scratching her head with her knitting-needle, and saying, as a corollary of her reflections: “It won’t be my fault if anything extraordinary should happen. To find a good situation for a good servant is not a crime. All I am sorry for is that that tiresome Felisa Febrero keeps forever putting off her departure for the Philippines.”

It was true, indeed, that Don Gaspar’s daughter delayed her journey in a way to make the blood boil in the veins of a more patient person than DoÑa Aurora. What made the latter wild was that the time for the examinations to take place was now drawing near, after which she had resolved to take a trip to Galicia, and to leave Esclavita behind or to take her with her seemed equally impracticable. Don Gaspar kept her informed of the news regarding his daughter’s departure, looking more and more joyful as the time drew nearer. “They are packing the trunks.” “They have made inquiries concerning the dates of sailing of the steamers.” “On Thursday, or at furthest on Saturday, they will be on their way to Cadiz.” At last he came one day with a face looking more radiant, more Olympic than usual, under the aureole of his beautiful white curls. “Friend Aurora,” he said, “they are to leave us this afternoon.” It was agreed that for appearance’s sake a few days should be allowed to pass before giving warning to the ignorant and slatternly Estremaduran who waited on Don Gaspar, and informing Esclavita of her change of situation. “Friend Aurora, do you take charge of that,” said the octogenarian. But although he thus laid all the responsibility on the shoulders of DoÑa Aurora, he could not resist the temptation, as he was passing the

confectionary of La Pajarita when he was taking his constitutional on the following day in the Puerta del Sol, to enter the shop and buy half a pound of caramels and bonbons. He hid his purchase in an inside pocket of his coat and when, stopping at the house of SeÑora de PardiÑas, Esclavita opened the door for him, he glanced around furtively, put his hand into his pocket, and drawing out the cartridge slipped it into her palm as if it were a billet doux. “Fresh,” was the only word his pleasing agitation allowed him to utter, as he put the gift into her hand.

Very reluctantly, and with much hemming and hawing, DoÑa Aurora set about performing her disagreeable task of getting rid of Esclavita. She would have felt less embarrassed if she had been called upon to break to her the news of some great misfortune, such as the death of some one dear to her, or some pecuniary loss, for, after all, in such a case she would have none of the responsibility nor would she be in any way to blame, while in merely announcing to her the impending change of abode and of employers, she felt, with her natural sense of right, to which nothing but her maternal affection could blind her, that there was something of harshness and cruelty in her conduct, although this was dictated by motives such as no prudent mother could disregard. “It is even a matter of conscience with me,” she said to herself, to fortify her courage. “I was thoughtless in bringing temptation within Rogelio’s reach. Felisa Febrero has shown more knowledge of the world than I, for, old as her father is, she would not put him in danger’s way. The boy has more sense than could have been expected, not to have lost his head completely. No, no, it is better to blush once than to turn pale a hundred times. To-day I will get rid of her. As soon as Rogelio goes to college——”

There are in the tones of the human voice mysterious notes of warning which in certain situations reveal our inmost thoughts before we have put them into words. The simple words, “Come here, Esclavita,” words such as a servant hears innumerable times in the course of a day, echoed on this occasion with an ominous sound in the soul of the young Galician. All the blood in her body rushed to her heart, and when she entered the room where her mistress was awaiting her she already knew by intuition the purport of what she was about to hear.

DoÑa Aurora was seated, not in the dining-room, but in her son’s study, where she was in the habit of going, in his absence, to write a note, to make up her accounts, or the like, and perhaps also to satisfy that instinctive and restless curiosity characteristic of an absorbing affection when it reaches the height of a passion. She made Esclavita sit down in a chair beside her and began to speak, without looking at her, occupying herself in taking the pens, one by one, from a little pen-box and placing them symmetrically, side by side, upon the table—On account of the trip to Galicia, there was nothing else to be done—To travel with three people was not the same as to travel with only two, that required no explanation—A situation in the house of SeÑor de Febrero was the best thing a girl like her could possibly desire; it was a great piece of good fortune. She would be, not a servant, but the housekeeper. She would be treated with every kind of consideration. The labor of waiting on one person only would not kill her; by taking a little trouble to please that excellent gentleman she would be in heaven—almost as if she were in her own house. Finally, Don Gaspar, too, was from Galicia. There would be no cause for her to feel lonesome there, as she had felt in the house of the SeÑoritas Romera.

When she had brought forward all these arguments she felt her mind relieved and, still apparently intent on the symmetrical arrangement of the rows of pens, gave a side glance at the girl. Esclavita remained motionless in her seat, her hands folded in her lap, her feet side by side, her eyes cast down; she, too, was little prone to throw open those windows of the soul to prying eyes.

“Well, what do you say?” asked SeÑora de PardiÑas at last, beginning to grow impatient, as she always did when she was met by a passive resistance.

“What should I say?” asked Esclavita in husky tones, but with apparent calmness.

“Say yes or no; say whether you like the situation I propose to you, or whether you would prefer to look for another, which should be more to your taste.”

There was an interval of silence, and then the girl answered in a voice deprived of all expression by her effort to render it calm:

“If there is no great hurry, I will give you my answer to-morrow or the day after.”

“I understand you,” said SeÑora de PardiÑas, in her own mind. “You want to have a talk with the boy first. Very good. I am prepared for whatever may happen. Here I am on guard and here I mean to remain. The first thing I shall do is to see that you don’t take him by surprise. I shall be on the alert, never fear!”

That afternoon, however, she was obliged to leave the house, contrary to her habit, to go to the railway station to see Felisa Febrero off, in compliance with one of those irksome social duties which cannot be evaded and which always seem to come at the most inopportune moment. Rogelio, too, had gone out riding, but owing to the necessity of attending to his studies now that the examinations were close at hand, he shortened his ride, and it was just as he was entering the house, flushed with exercise, fanning himself with his gray hat and cracking his whip, that Esclavita caught him by the sleeve and drew him, almost by force, into the study, bringing him to a stand-still beside the very table on which DoÑa Aurora had that morning drawn up her army of pens.

“Has anything happened, SuriÑa?” he asked. “What is the matter with you?”

“Didn’t I tell you—that I wasn’t going to Galicia,” she cried, “either this year or any other year? Your mamma has dismissed me. She is going to leave me at SeÑor Febrero’s.”

“What are you saying? What do you mean? Tell me, tell me all about it.”

The girl told him all she herself knew. Her eyes were dry, but her mouth and chin quivered. Her bosom heaved, and in her manner of telling what had occurred, in that despairing cry for help, like the cry of a drowning man when he is about to sink beneath the waves, there was a vehemence and disorder which formed a contrast to her habitual composure, and which might well have moved one with more years and experience than Rogelio. While he stammered, “No, it cannot be possible, you won’t leave us, what nonsense,” he clasped his arms involuntarily around the girl’s slender form, and the thrill of passion he had felt four or five months before awoke within him again, more ardent than ever, inspiring him with courage to rebel, to protest, and to defend Esclavita as we defend what belongs to us and is a part of our life. “Some one must have been telling her stories,” he said; “but who and why? What motive have we given for talk, SuriÑa? Why, since mamma’s illness we have scarcely spoken a word together. You never put your foot here. This is very strange; this must not be. I will arrange the matter. The idea of your leaving us! No, my pretty one.”

Cheered and revived by these promises, Esclavita nestled close to Rogelio’s bosom, as if she sought there a refuge whence no one could tear her, and Rogelio, with youthful and irresistible transport, covered her with kisses and tried to lift up her head, seeking her lips. The bell rang, unheard by either. It rang again, this time energetically and impatiently, and with an abrupt and simultaneous movement they drew apart. The girl smoothed her hair, and arranged her neckerchief with trembling fingers, saying:

“I am going to open the door; it is the SeÑora.”