“I shall write him a scorching letter at once and tell him what I think. He shall hear from me, I swear it. That deviltry will be thrown in his face, or my name is not Felipe. I’ll give him so much trouble that he’ll have cause to remember the saint of my name. And he, of course, will think that I shall allow you to associate with your precious step-mother!”
“In the first place,” replied my aunt slowly, with an effort, “I believe that their marriage is still a secret; and in the second place, I used to associate with her when I was at home and when she was exposed to worse things. Why shouldn’t I associate with her now that she is my father’s wife, if she behaves herself properly?”
“Behaves herself; no trouble about behavior!” exclaimed my uncle, ironically. “Behaves herself well! The young fellows at Pontevedra and San Andrés can tell you all about that. However, as far as that is concerned I don’t care anything about it—”
“Well, as for me, that’s the only thing I do care about,” answered my aunt, vehemently, unable to restrain herself any longer. “I hope that my father may not have cause to feel ashamed of his choice, and let the rest be as God wills,—as it will be, after all.”
Oh, obdurate hardness of heart of the Hebrew race, with how much justice did Christ reprove you! Those words, prompted by a sublime impulse of faith, would have moved a stone; but my uncle was harder than a stone, and, throwing away his napkin, he arose from the table, muttering between his teeth:
“As if that was not enough to come upon one, I must listen to stupidities and twaddle. He must have nerve. Just think of that scarecrow getting married now; and then to hear him defended here,—here in my own house!”
He rushed out of the dining-room. I followed him, for I wanted to know where he was going, and I had an object in leaving Carmen alone. I heard my uncle shut himself up in his study, doubtless in order to write the “scorching” letter to his father-in-law. Then I went back, and entering the dining-room, suddenly, drew near to Carmen and seated myself beside her, murmuring tenderly: “Don’t cry, my aunt; come, now, don’t cry. Foolish one, don’t trouble yourself about that.”
I had not deceived myself in my surmises.
Startled, she turned around, and I saw her eyes swimming in tears, though her energy of will instantly dried them. In a voice which was almost steady she answered me, drawing away a little:
“Thanks, Salustio. It is all over. One can’t help it sometimes, one is so foolish.”