“Give it to me, or I shall do something desperate.”
“Take it, nephew,” she replied, stopping; “and don’t ever hide in the trees again.”
I grasped the spray as a robber would grasp a stolen treasure, and looked at my aunt, searching her eyes to their depths. I did not perceive either resentment or severity in her while she thus frankly avowed that she had discovered my outrageous performance. But a slight sense of startled modesty was discernible in her eyes, though this severe bearing was tempered by a half-smile and the animation of her countenance, flushed by the dance.
I would gladly have had that waltz last forever. I remained silent, for the force of my feelings tied my tongue; while I felt that I was raised to the fifth heaven. Unable to restrain myself, I must have clasped her slender waist too closely, for suddenly aunt stopped, and with an agitated countenance, but a firm voice, said: “That is enough.”
CHAPTER XVI.
We did not sit down to dinner until three o’clock in the afternoon. We were somewhat crowded because the dining-room was almost entirely taken up by a huge table in the shape of a horseshoe, adorned with vases of flowers placed at regular intervals, and pyramids of confectionery. There were more than thirty guests present; many of the gentry from San Andrés, several priests, a number of physicians, the adjutant of Marines, three or four landed proprietors, judges, district politicians, young ladies, some of my uncle’s political adherents, and even the good Don Wenceslao Viñal, who placed himself at my side so that he might have some one with whom to talk about his archæologico-historical whimseys.
Lupercio Pimentel, Don Vicente’s godson, had the place of honor at the bride’s right hand. He was good looking, well mannered, an easy talker, cordial and full of fun, after the fashion of politicians of the present time, who, instead of relying on the force which ideas and principles carry with them, trust to their own personal magnetism. From the commencement of the banquet, I observed that he left no stone unturned in order to ingratiate himself with the company; “those elements,” as he would say. He looked around, and I heard him say, bending toward my uncle over the bride’s shoulder:
“How is it that the Mayor of San Andrés is not here?”
“Because he is so opposed to us,” replied my uncle.
“For that very reason he ought to be here. Our friend Calvete must afterward put his name in the list of guests,” he added, pointing to the editor of El Teucrense, who bowed, greatly flattered.