A remark of hers concerning his father’s age precipitated the flood. “Si, he has many years.” Then, his dark, handsome face aglow, Ramon ran on: “Yesterday he was saying that he would be content to pass could he but see me settled with a wife. I told him it depended on”—he paused, then added the tu of lovers—“on thee. If—”
“Oh, Ramon!” she pleaded, in wild distress. “Please—don’t!”
But the dam was gone! In terms that would seem extravagant in English, but flowed naturally in the eloquent, rhythmic Spanish, he told his love. Sunshine and star fire; moonlight and bird-song; the bloom of spring flowers; loom of the mountains; wide spread of the desert—all were she! Warmth, light, happiness, from her proceeded! She was his universe. In her all beauty dwelt! And so on. To a girl who loved him, it would have been delightful wooing. Six months ago she would have listened, charmed; perhaps have been persuaded. But now—it filled her with dismay.
“Oh, you poor Ramon!” She held out her hand in remorse and pity, but when, seizing it, he tried to draw her to him, she pulled away. “Oh no! no! Oh, what a miserable creature I am! Here I have played—”
But she got no further. Realizing with sympathetic intuition that the moment was unpropitious, he stopped her. “There is no hurry. I did not intend to tell thee for a little while. But there is no harm done. Thou hast always known it.”
“Oh yes.” Tears dimming the blue eyes, she nodded. “Yes, but—” Then realizing that argument would but reopen the case, she accepted the compromise. “No, I won’t answer now. Wait.”
“If there be any one else—” His brow drew down over somber, threatening eyes.
“Oh, there isn’t!” She was conscious, herself, of over-emphasis. But she repeated again. “There isn’t, Ramon!”
“Bueno!” His face cleared. “Then I am content.”
Now she was conscious of vast relief as though at the passing of imminent danger. Relief from what? She refused to think.