“Yes, indeed, I pity a great many,” proceeded the friar, taking my arm familiarly, and leading me through the grove to a little meadow beyond, which ended in a fence over which Parietariæ and wild flowers grew. “To people who judge by appearances only, it may seem that I ought to be envious in the midst of a wedding-feast, or at least consider my condition so different from that of married people, eh? Well, see here, I assure you (and you will not suppose me to be juggling with words, for you know now that I am very frank) that it seems rather as if the newly-married couple inspired me with a feeling of compassion—yes, compassion—when I realize the hardships which await them on their way through life, however happy they may be, even though God should shower upon them all that is understood by the word happiness.”
The friar’s sentiments tallied so well with mine just then, that I would gladly have embraced him. But yielding the second time to the desire to unbosom myself, I sat down on the fence and said:
“Father Moreno, the marriage appears perfectly absurd to me. Either I am much mistaken, or it will lead to most lamentable results. Carmiña is an angel, a saint, an exceptional being; and my uncle—well, I have reason to know him.”
The appearance of the Father’s face suddenly changed. His eyes became severe, he knit his brow, and his smiling lips contracted into a serious, almost austere expression. His face revealed, what was seldom visible there, the stamp of his vocation; the friar and confessor was reappearing from under the semblance of the affable, courteous, human, and communicative man.
“You speak thoughtlessly,” he said, without circumlocution, “and you must pardon me for bringing you up with a round turn. Perhaps you think that you have something to found your opinion upon, though I really regret that you oblige me to recall that—because I desire to forget that you were more indiscreet and inquisitive than is fitting in a person who, by his training and the scientific nature of his profession, ought to set everybody an example of seriousness. You know we have never alluded to that subject, but now that you yourself afford me an opportunity, I shall not let it pass by. I believe that you acted as you did out of the natural thoughtlessness of youth; if otherwise, my goodness!”
“To what do you refer?” I asked, feeling my personal dignity begin to assert itself, and looking him squarely in the face.
“Bah! as if you did not know! But I am not one who measures his words. I refer to the tree—to the yew. Do you want it still clearer? To the fall you got for listening to what did not concern you in the least.”
“See here, Father, your garb does not give you a right to everything,—I——”
“You were listening to us? Yes or no. No rhetoric, now.”
“Yes, if you want to know. Yes, but with the desire to——”