XIX.
Nieves drew a long breath. She felt dazed. She shook her wrists, hurt by the pressure of Segundo's fingers, and arranged her hair, wet with the night dew, and disordered by the contact of the branches. What had she said after all? Anything, no matter what, to escape from so compromising a situation. She was to blame for having withdrawn from the others and hidden herself in so retired a spot. And with that desire to give publicity to unimportant actions which seizes people when they have something to conceal she called out:
"Teresa! Elvira! Carmen! Carmen!"
"Nieves! where are you, Nieves?" came in answer from various quarters.
"Here, beside the big lemon tree. Wait for me, I am coming!"
When they entered the house, Nieves, who had to some extent recovered her composure, began to reflect on what had passed and could not but wonder at herself. To say yes to Segundo. She had uttered the word partly under compulsion, but she had uttered it. How daring the poet had been. It seemed impossible that the son of the lawyer of Vilamorta should be so determined. She was a lady of distinction, highly respected, her husband had just been Minister. And García's family, what were they—nobodies; the father wore collars frayed at the edges that were a sight to see; they kept no servant; the sisters ran about barefooted half the time. Even Segundo himself—he had an unmistakable provincial air and a strong Galician accent. He could not indeed be called ugly; there was something remarkable in his face and in his manner. He spoke with so much passion! As if he commanded instead of entreating! What a masterful air he had! And there was something flattering to one's vanity in having a suitor of this kind, so ardent and so daring. Who had ever fallen in love with Nieves before? There were three or four who had made gallant speeches to her—one who had watched her through his opera-glass. Everyone in Madrid treated her with that indifference and consideration which respectable ladies inspire.
For the rest, this persistency of Segundo's was to a certain extent compromising. Would people notice it? Would her husband notice it? Bah! Her husband thought only of his ailments, of the elections. He scarcely ever spoke to her of anything else. But what if he should notice it? How horrible, good Heavens! And the girls who had been playing hide and seek, might they not suspect something? Elvira seemed more languishing and sighed more frequently than usual. Elvira admired Segundo. He—no, he did not pay the slightest attention to her. And Segundo's verses sounded well, they were beautiful; they were worthy of a place in La Ilustracion. In short, as they would be obliged to return to Madrid before the elections, there was hardly any real danger. She would always preserve a pleasant recollection of the summer. The thing was to avoid—to avoid——
Nieves did not venture to tell herself what it was necessary to avoid, nor had she settled this point when she entered the parlor, where the game of tresillo was already going on. Señora de Comba seated herself at the piano and played several quick airs—polkas and rigadoons, for the girls to dance. When she stopped they cried out for another air.
"Nieves, the muñeira!"