“See here,” he added, after leaning his elbows on the windowsill for a moment, “you know that I am not one of the men who die for these things; you remember how I always used to laugh at your faith in the great passions of those French dramas with which you used to read me to sleep winter nights. This is a different thing; I must needs get myself married, and I flattered myself that I should enter your family almost as your brother. It has not turned out that way; but I shall search for a woman who will love me without making me deserving of your hate, and …”
“My hate!” I exclaimed, interrupting him.
“Yes; excuse my frankness. What a silly thing—rather, what a reckless thing it would have been for me to have placed myself in such a situation! A fine result it would have been: sorrow for your family, remorse for me, and the loss of your friendship.
“You must love her very much,” he proceeded, after a pause, “for a few hours have been enough for me to see it, in spite of your trying to conceal it. Isn’t it true that you love her as you thought you might come to love when you were eighteen?”
“I do,” replied I, overcome by his noble candor.
“And your father doesn’t know it?”
“He knows it.”
“He does!”
Then I told him of the talk I had had with my father some days before.
“And so you risk everything, everything?” he asked me, in amazement. “And this disease, which is probably the same that her mother had—Why, are you going to spend half your life seated beside a grave?”
These last words overwhelmed me with grief; coming from one whose affection for me dictated them—from Carlos, who was subject to no hallucination—they had a terrible solemnity, more terrible, even, than the “yes” with which I answered them.
I rose, and Carlos caught me in a close and tender embrace. I left him, plunged in sadness, yet free from that humiliating feeling with which I had begun the interview.
I went back to the parlor. While my sister was trying a new waltz on the guitar, María told me of what had passed between her and my father. Never had she been so demonstrative with me; recalling the conversation with my father, she frequently dropped her eyes in shame; yet happiness played about her lips.
XXVIII
The arrival of the mails, and the visit of the M⸺s, had accumulated a great deal to do in my father’s study. We worked steadily all the next day, but when we were with the family in the dining-room, María’s smiles made me sweet promises for the hour of rest; in their strength I could go cheerfully to the most wearisome labor.
At eight in the evening I went with my father to his bedroom, and responding to my usual goodnight, he added, “We have accomplished something, but there is still much to be done; so, then, early tomorrow morning.”
On such days as this María was always waiting for me in the evening, talking with Emma and my mother in the parlor, reading to the latter a chapter of the Imitation or teaching the children prayers.
“Did you see your friend this morning?” she asked.
“Yes; why do you ask that now?”
“Because I have not been able to ask it before.”
“And why are you interested in knowing?”
“Did he ask you to return his visit?”
“Yes.”
“And you are going to, aren’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“He is very fond of you, isn’t he?”
“I have always believed so.”
“And you still believe it?”
“Why not?”
“Are you as fond of him as when you were together in college?”
“Yes; but what makes you talk about this today?”
“It is because I want you always to be his friend, and hope he will keep on being yours. But you didn’t tell him anything?”
“Anything of what?”
“Why, of that.”
“What do you mean by ‘that’?”
“You know what I mean. You didn’t tell him, did you?”
“This is the first time I ever failed to understand you.”
“Oh, goodness! of course you understand. It is if you told him about what …”
As I sat looking at her, while she smiled at me in an almost childish eagerness, she continued, “Very well; you need not tell me now.”
She began to build little towers with backgammon-counters, with which we were playing.
“If you don’t look at me,” I said, “I will not confess to you what I told Carlos.”
“Well, then, let’s see; now tell,” she replied, trying to do what I asked.
“I told him everything.”
“Oh, no, not everything?”
“Did I do wrong?”
“As if you could. But, then, why didn’t you tell him before he came?”
“My father did not want me to.”
“I know; but then he would not have come, and wouldn’t that have been better?”
“Undoubtedly, but I could not do it; and now he is satisfied that I did not.”
“He will keep on, then, being your friend?”
“There is no reason why he should not.”
“True, and I do not want him just for this—”
“Carlos will thank you as much as I do for that.”
“So you parted as usual? And he went away happy?”
“As happy as he could be under the circumstances.”
“Then I was not to blame, was I?”
“No, María, and he will not think the less of you for what you have done.”
“If he truly cares for you it ought to be so.”
“But mamma is going,” she added, “and Emma is falling asleep. It’s time now, isn’t it?”
“Must you go?”
“And what
