It was the first expression of the kind that had ever come from her lips. Josè’s heart thumped violently. The Goddess of Fortune had suddenly thrown her most precious jewel into his lap. Joy welled up in flood tides from unknown depths within. His eyes swam. Then––he remembered. And thick night fell upon his soul.
Minutes passed, and the two sat very quiet. Then Carmen raised her head. “Padre,” she whispered, “you don’t say anything. I know you love me. And you will not always be a priest––not always,” shaking her beautiful curls with suggestive emphasis.
Why did she say that? He wondered vaguely. The people called her an hada. He sometimes thought they had reason to. And then he knew that she never moved except in response to a beckoning hand that still, after all these years, remained invisible to him.
“Chiquita,” he said in low response, “I fear––I fear that can never be. And even if––ah, chiquita, I am so much older than you, little girl––almost seventeen years!”
“You do not want to marry me, even if you could, Padre?” she queried, looking wistfully into his eyes, while her own grew moist.
He clutched her to him again. “Carmen!” he cried wildly, “you little know––you little know! But––child, we must not talk of these things! Wait––wait!”
“But, Padre dear,” she pleaded, “just say that you do love me that way––just say it––your little girl wants to hear it.”
God above! She, pleading that he would say he loved her! His head sank upon his breast. He silently prayed that his tortured soul might burst and let his wasted life ebb into oblivion while his pent-up misery poured out.
“Carmen!” he cried with the despair of the lost. “I love you––love you––love you! Nay, child, I adore you! God! That I might hold you thus forever!”
She reached up quickly and kissed him. “Some day, Padre dear,” she murmured softly, “you will stop thinking that two and two are seven. Then everything good will come to you.”