“Say yes or no; say whether you like the situation I propose to you, or whether you would prefer to look for another, which should be more to your taste.”
There was an interval of silence, and then the girl answered in a voice deprived of all expression by her effort to render it calm:
“If there is no great hurry, I will give you my answer to-morrow or the day after.”
“I understand you,” said Señora de Pardiñas, in her own mind. “You want to have a talk with the boy first. Very good. I am prepared for whatever may happen. Here I am on guard and here I mean to remain. The first thing I shall do is to see that you don’t take him by surprise. I shall be on the alert, never fear!”
That afternoon, however, she was obliged to leave the house, contrary to her habit, to go to the railway station to see Felisa Febrero off, in compliance with one of those irksome social duties which cannot be evaded and which always seem to come at the most inopportune moment. Rogelio, too, had gone out riding, but owing to the necessity of attending to his studies now that the examinations were close at hand, he shortened his ride, and it was just as he was entering the house, flushed with exercise, fanning himself with his gray hat and cracking his whip, that Esclavita caught him by the sleeve and drew him, almost by force, into the study, bringing him to a stand-still beside the very table on which Doña Aurora had that morning drawn up her army of pens.
“Has anything happened, Suriña?” he asked. “What is the matter with you?”
“Didn’t I tell you—that I wasn’t going to Galicia,” she cried, “either this year or any other year? Your mamma has dismissed me. She is going to leave me at Señor Febrero’s.”
“What are you saying? What do you mean? Tell me, tell me all about it.”
The girl told him all she herself knew. Her eyes were dry, but her mouth and chin quivered. Her bosom heaved, and in her manner of telling what had occurred, in that despairing cry for help, like the cry of a drowning man when he is about to sink beneath the waves, there was a vehemence and disorder which formed a contrast to her habitual composure, and which might well have moved one with more years and experience than Rogelio. While he stammered, “No, it cannot be possible, you won’t leave us, what nonsense,” he clasped his arms involuntarily around the girl’s slender form, and the thrill of passion he had felt four or five months before awoke within him again, more ardent than ever, inspiring him with courage to rebel, to protest, and to defend Esclavita as we defend what belongs to us and is a part of our life. “Some one must have been telling her stories,” he said; “but who and why? What motive have we given for talk, Suriña? Why, since mamma’s illness we have scarcely spoken a word together. You never put your foot here. This is very strange; this must not be. I will arrange the matter. The idea of your leaving us! No, my pretty one.”
Cheered and revived by these promises, Esclavita nestled close to Rogelio’s bosom, as if she sought there a refuge whence no one could tear her, and Rogelio, with youthful and irresistible transport, covered her with kisses and tried to lift up her head, seeking her lips. The bell rang, unheard by either. It rang again, this time energetically and impatiently, and with an abrupt and simultaneous movement they drew apart. The girl smoothed her hair, and arranged her neckerchief with trembling fingers, saying: