He went on to give a long list of the advantages which arise from not sleeping much; to all which it might have been replied that what he called sleeping but little was in reality sleeping a great deal, beginning early, for he confessed that he was in the habit of going to bed at seven or eight, so as to avoid nervousness. The arrival of Braulio, whom Juan Ángel had gone to summon at daybreak, in accordance with my directions, prevented us from enjoying the peroration of Señor M⸺’s discourse.
Braulio had a pair of dogs with him, which one who knew them less well than I would have had difficulty in recognizing as the heroes of the hunt of the day before. Mayo growled at sight of them, and came to hide himself behind me with signs of invincible dislike; he, with his white and still handsome hair, his drooping ears, and his stern frown, had an inexpressibly aristocratic air, compared with the mountaineer’s hunting-dogs. Braulio gave me a respectful greeting, and came up to ask after the family; I grasped his hand affectionately. His dogs fawned upon me, to show that they liked me better than Mayo.
“You will have a chance to show your shooting,” said I to Carlos. “I have sent to get two good dogs from Santa Elena, and here is a companion with whom the deer had better not try any tricks, and his pups are very clever.”
“What, those?” asked Carlos, disdainfully.
“With such mangy curs!” added Don Jerónimo.
“Yes, sir, with those identical dogs.”
“I’ll not believe it, even if I see it,” answered Señor M⸺, resuming his walk along the corridor.
They had just brought us coffee, and I made Braulio take the cup meant for me. Carlos and his father did not conceal their surprise at my courtesy towards the mountaineer.
Shortly afterwards, Señor M⸺ and my father rode away to inspect the farm-work. Braulio, Carlos, and I devoted ourselves to getting the rifles ready, and to gauging the load according to my friend’s ideas. We were busy with this when my mother sent word that she wanted to speak to me. She was waiting for me in her sewing-room. María and my sister had gone to the bath. Asking me to sit down, she said: “Your father insists that María ought to know of Carlos’s proposal. Do you think so, too?”
“I think that whatever my father desires should be done.”
“I imagine you say that to prove yourself obedient, and not because his decision does not trouble you.”
“I have agreed to do what he wishes; besides, María is not yet engaged to me, and is at perfect liberty to decide according to her own judgment. I promised to say nothing to her of what we determined upon, and I have kept my promise.”
“I am afraid that if María supposes that your father and I do not approve your engagement, she will be much affected and perhaps made sick. Your father has not thought it best to speak to Señor M⸺ about María’s disease, for fear he might think it a mere pretext for declining his offer; and as both he and his son know that she has a dowry—well, I cannot explain it, but you understand. What must we do, then, do you think, to prevent María from imagining even for an instant that we do not want her to be your wife—without, at the same time, going contrary to what your father has just said?”
“There is only one way.”
“What is it?”
“I will tell you, and I am sure you will approve; I beg you to approve. Let us tell María of the secrecy which my father has enjoined upon me in regard to his consent that I should look upon her as the one who is to be my wife. I promise you to be very careful and to do nothing to make my father suspect this necessary disregard of his wishes. Can I go on acting as he commands without doing María more harm than would come from confessing everything to her? Trust in me. Isn’t it true that it is impossible to do as my father desires? Don’t you see it, and think so, too?”
My mother remained silent for a few moments, and then, smiling in the most affectionate manner, she said:
“Very well; but you ought not to promise what you cannot perform. And how shall I tell her of Carlos’s proposal?”
“Just as you would tell Emma, under similar circumstances; and afterwards you can tell her what you have promised. If I am not mistaken, your first words will give her pain, since she will fear that you and my father are strongly opposed to our marriage. She overheard what you said, once, about her disease, and only your kind treatment, and the conversation she and I had yesterday, have sufficed to reassure her. Forget all about me when you tell her about Carlos’s offer. I shall listen to what you say, behind this door.”
“You will?” asked she, astonished.
“Yes, Señora, I will.”
“And why do you resort to such a plot?”
“María will be glad I did it, after it is all over.”
“What do you think will come of it, then?”
“I shall know how much she is capable of doing for me.”
“But will it not be better, if what you wish is to hear what she says to me, that she should never know that you heard it, and that I consented to your hearing it?”
“Let it be so, if you wish.”
“Ah, you don’t like to concede that.”
“I beseech you not to oppose it.”
“But do you not see that to do what you ask, if she comes to know it, is for me to promise her a thing which, unfortunately, I do not know whether I can grant; since, if her sickness were
