“Which of your daughters?” I asked with such eager empressement as to startle Don Eusebio, and call forth an interrogative exclamation.
“Oh!” I answered, with an effort to gloss over my confusion, “I understood you to say you had two daughters. Of course one is older than the other—that is, if they be not twins?”
“No señor; they are not twins. One is two years the elder. It was she who intended to devote herself to the service of God. Por dios!” he continued, his brow shadowing as he spoke, “Both must do so now. There is no other future for them—pobres niñas!”
I understood the significance of the sad speech, and remained silent.
After a pause, he proceeded, “It was Dolores, my eldest girl, who intended to take the veil.”
“Was it of her own free will?” I asked.
I could see that the question caused embarrassment. My emotions at the moment were not less powerful—not less painful—than his.
“Pardon me,” I continued, “for making so free with your family affairs; which, of course, cannot in any way concern me. It was a mere inadvertence—quite unintentional—I assure you.”
“O, sir! have I not promised to tell you all—you who have so nobly espoused our cause; you who are about to imperil your precious life for the safety of my children! Why should I conceal from you aught that appertains to their welfare?”
“It is true,” he continued, after a short interval of silence, “true, that my daughter was not altogether reconciled to the step. I myself was inciting her to take it. I had my reasons, señor; and I am sure, that on hearing them, you will approve of what I intended doing. It was for her happiness; for the honour of our family name and the glory of God—which last should be the chief end and act of every true Christian.”