“Up there in the tree we shall be better situated and can talk at our ease.”
As soon as I perceived this, I had a sudden idea. I was burning with eagerness to hear that conversation, whether guilty or innocent, for it could not fail to be of the greatest interest to me. I felt that the first thing they would do, before talking unreservedly, would be to search the tree, although it was not likely that anybody would be there at such an hour. So I looked around for a hiding place.
The foliage of the yew tree was not merely thick, but almost solid, so close that any one could easily hide behind it; but it grew thinner toward the top. I saw no way of concealing myself except by going down to the supper-room. There I could see and hear them, wherever they might place themselves. So I descended and, getting over the railing, hid myself among the shadowy branches, bestriding the strongest one I saw. Some branches cracked, and two or three smaller ones broke; the leaves rustled, and several startled birds flew off with a great fluttering of wings, to escape my pursuit, as they thought it. Fortunately, the friar and my uncle’s fiancée were passing under the covered walk of the arbor just then, and it was not possible for them to glance toward the tree, or to see anything if they did. Otherwise they would have noticed the agitation of the branches, comparable to that of the water in a tank when a nutshell falls into it. They were still rustling and quivering when I heard the tapping of Carmen’s feet, and the father’s ponderous tread, coming up the stairway.
They sat down close to each other, placing themselves so that I could see their faces by looking a little up; and as they were in full light, while I was in comparative darkness, I could all the better study their expression and even hear their quick breathing, caused by their climb, and the creaking of the chair when the friar dropped his heavy weight on it.
He spoke first, praising their selection of a spot where they might have a confidential chat without being overheard.
“Yes, it is true,” said the young lady, well satisfied. “I agree with you, there is no other place where we can talk with entire freedom. Either Serafín or Salustio would make their appearance in the orchard, and would stick to us, and there it would be impossible. Even if they should take a fancy to get up early, they would never think of coming to the yew tree. And have you noticed how persistent they are, how they will scarcely let one breathe?”
CHAPTER XIV.
“Particularly your prospective nephew,” replied the friar. “I don’t really know what is the matter with that young gentleman, but it seems as though he were watching us. Sometimes I feel tempted to send him to the deuce. Because if he and all the rest did not keep close to our heels, we should not be obliged to make use of this secrecy, which does not please me, my child, because it might give occasion to malicious interpretations; and it is not enough to be good, one must appear so also.”
“That’s true; but if I did not unbosom myself to you, I believe that I should die. There are certain things one cannot explain clearly in the confessional.”
“To be sure; well, now that we are here, let us hope that the Lord will bring us some good out of this bad business. My child, open your heart, and say all you wish. Here is Father Moreno to listen to you and advise you, not now as a confessor but as a friend. I am really your friend—you know that very well, so further words are useless.