At last, however, this painful silence was partially broken through. One morning the old servant accosted her master with an air of some displeasure. It was in the inner room within the hall. Holding in her hand a little book, she said,--"May it please your Excellency to pardon my freedom, but it is not well done of you to leave this lying open on your table. I am a simple woman; still I am at no loss to know what and whence it is. If you will not destroy it, and cannot keep it safe and secret, I implore of your worship to give it to me."
Juan held out his hand for it. "It is dearer to me than any earthly possession," he said briefly.
"It had need to be dearer than your life, señor, if you mean to leave it about in that fashion."
"I have lost the right to say so much," Juan answered. "And yet, Dolores--tell me, would it break your heart if I sold this place--you know it is mortgaged heavily already--and quitted the country?"
Juan expected a start, if not a cry of surprise and dismay. That Alvarez de Meñaya should sell the inheritance of his fathers seemed indeed a monstrous proposal. In the eyes of the world it would be an act of insanity, if not a crime. What then would it appear to one who loved the name of Santillanos y Meñaya far better than her life?
But the still face of Dolores never changed. "Nothing would break my heart now," she said calmly.
"You would come with us?"
She did not even ask whither. She did not care: all her thoughts were in the past.
"That is of course, señor," she answered. "If I had but first assurance of one thing."
"Name it; and if I can assure you, I will."