It was true, indeed, that Don Gaspar’s daughter delayed her journey in a way to make the blood boil in the veins of a more patient person than Doña Aurora. What made the latter wild was that the time for the examinations to take place was now drawing near, after which she had resolved to take a trip to Galicia, and to leave Esclavita behind or to take her with her seemed equally impracticable. Don Gaspar kept her informed of the news regarding his daughter’s departure, looking more and more joyful as the time drew nearer. “They are packing the trunks.” “They have made inquiries concerning the dates of sailing of the steamers.” “On Thursday, or at furthest on Saturday, they will be on their way to Cadiz.” At last he came one day with a face looking more radiant, more Olympic than usual, under the aureole of his beautiful white curls. “Friend Aurora,” he said, “they are to leave us this afternoon.” It was agreed that for appearance’s sake a few days should be allowed to pass before giving warning to the ignorant and slatternly Estremaduran who waited on Don Gaspar, and informing Esclavita of her change of situation. “Friend Aurora, do you take charge of that,” said the octogenarian. But although he thus laid all the responsibility on the shoulders of Doña Aurora, he could not resist the temptation, as he was passing the
“As he was passing the confectionary of La Pajarita.”
confectionary of La Pajarita when he was taking his constitutional on the following day in the Puerta del Sol, to enter the shop and buy half a pound of caramels and bonbons. He hid his purchase in an inside pocket of his coat and when, stopping at the house of Señora de Pardiñas, Esclavita opened the door for him, he glanced around furtively, put his hand into his pocket, and drawing out the cartridge slipped it into her palm as if it were a billet doux. “Fresh,” was the only word his pleasing agitation allowed him to utter, as he put the gift into her hand.
Very reluctantly, and with much hemming and hawing, Doña Aurora set about performing her disagreeable task of getting rid of Esclavita. She would have felt less embarrassed if she had been called upon to break to her the news of some great misfortune, such as the death of some one dear to her, or some pecuniary loss, for, after all, in such a case she would have none of the responsibility nor would she be in any way to blame, while in merely announcing to her the impending change of abode and of employers, she felt, with her natural sense of right, to which nothing but her maternal affection could blind her, that there was something of harshness and cruelty in her conduct, although this was dictated by motives such as no prudent mother could disregard. “It is even a matter of conscience with me,” she said to herself, to fortify her courage. “I was thoughtless in bringing temptation within Rogelio’s reach. Felisa Febrero has shown more knowledge of the world than I, for, old as her father is, she would not put him in danger’s way. The boy has more sense than could have been expected, not to have lost his head completely. No, no, it is better to blush once than to turn pale a hundred times. To-day I will get rid of her. As soon as Rogelio goes to college——”
There are in the tones of the human voice mysterious notes of warning which in certain situations reveal our inmost thoughts before we have put them into words. The simple words, “Come here, Esclavita,” words such as a servant hears innumerable times in the course of a day, echoed on this occasion with an ominous sound in the soul of the young Galician. All the blood in her body rushed to her heart, and when she entered the room where her mistress was awaiting her she already knew by intuition the purport of what she was about to hear.
Doña Aurora was seated, not in the dining-room, but in her son’s study, where she was in the habit of going, in his absence, to write a note, to make up her accounts, or the like, and perhaps also to satisfy that instinctive and restless curiosity characteristic of an absorbing affection when it reaches the height of a passion. She made Esclavita sit down in a chair beside her and began to speak, without looking at her, occupying herself in taking the pens, one by one, from a little pen-box and placing them symmetrically, side by side, upon the table—On account of the trip to Galicia, there was nothing else to be done—To travel with three people was not the same as to travel with only two, that required no explanation—A situation in the house of Señor de Febrero was the best thing a girl like her could possibly desire; it was a great piece of good fortune. She would be, not a servant, but the housekeeper. She would be treated with every kind of consideration. The labor of waiting on one person only would not kill her; by taking a little trouble to please that excellent gentleman she would be in heaven—almost as if she were in her own house. Finally, Don Gaspar, too, was from Galicia. There would be no cause for her to feel lonesome there, as she had felt in the house of the Señoritas Romera.
When she had brought forward all these arguments she felt her mind relieved and, still apparently intent on the symmetrical arrangement of the rows of pens, gave a side glance at the girl. Esclavita remained motionless in her seat, her hands folded in her lap, her feet side by side, her eyes cast down; she, too, was little prone to throw open those windows of the soul to prying eyes.
“Well, what do you say?” asked Señora de Pardiñas at last, beginning to grow impatient, as she always did when she was met by a passive resistance.
“What should I say?” asked Esclavita in husky tones, but with apparent calmness.