LOVE.
Dolores and Carmen were alone in the garden. Hidden like two timid
turtle doves, in an arbour of orange, lemon, and flowering pomegranate
trees, and were eagerly conversing. Doña María kept her room, through
a slight indisposition--such, at least, was the excuse she made to
the young ladies for not keeping them company in the garden, but, in
reality, she had shut herself up to read an important letter which don
Jaime had sent her by a safe man.
The girls, free from all surveillance, were rejoicing their hearts by
confiding to each other their simple and sweet secrets; a few words
had sufficed to render any explanation between them unnecessary; hence
there were no concealments or subterfuges, but an entire and unbounded
confidence, a tacitly concluded union to help each other, and compel
their swains to break a too lengthened silence, and let them read in
their hearts the name of her whom each of them preferred. It is on
this serious and interesting subject that the conversation of the young
ladies turned at this moment. Although they had confessed to each other
their mutual love, by a feeling of delicacy inseparable from every real
passion, they hesitated and recoiled with a blush before the thought of
urging the young men to declare themselves.
Doña Carmen and doña Dolores were really simple and innocent girls,
ignorant of all the coquettish tricks of which, among us, the so-called
civilized people, women make such cruel, and, at times, implacable
sport. By one of those strange accidents, which real life so frequently
creates, the conversation of the young ladies was, with but a few
slight differences, the same as the one that had previously taken place
between the count and his friend on the same subject.
"Dolores," doña Carmen said, in a caressing voice, "you are braver than
I. You know don Ludovic better than I do; and, besides, he is your
relation; why this reserve with him?"
"Alas! My darling," doña Dolores replied, "this reserve which surprises
you is forced upon me by my position. Count Ludovic is now my sole
relation, as I am deserted by all the others; for many years past we
have been betrothed to each other."
"How is it possible," the girl exclaimed, nobly, "that parents thus
dare to enchain their children without consulting, and condemn them
beforehand to a future of misery?"
"These arrangements are frequently made in Europe, dearest, I
understand; moreover, does not our natural weakness render us women
slaves of men, who have retained the supreme power in their hands? and
although this intolerable tyranny makes us groan, we must humbly bow
the head and obey."
"Yes, that is only too true; still, I fancy that if we were to resist--"
"We should be branded, pointed at, and ruin our reputation."
"Well, do you, in spite of your heart, conclude this odious marriage?"
"What shall I answer you, darling? The mere thought that this marriage
might be accomplished renders me wild with grief, and yet I can see no
way of escaping it: the count left France and came here with the sole
object of marrying me; my father, on his dying bed, made him promise
not to leave me without a protector, and to conclude this marriage. You
see that there are several and very serious reasons why it seems to me
impossible to escape from the fate that menaces me."
"But, my darling," doña Carmen exclaimed, warmly, "why do you not have
a clear explanation with the count? Perhaps this explanation would
smooth all difficulties."
"That is possible; but this explanation cannot come from me; the count
has rendered me immense services since my unfortunate father's death,
and it would be giving him a very bad reward to answer by a refusal to
a request which ought to honour me in every respect."
"Oh, you love him, Dolores!" she exclaimed, passionately.
"No, I do not love him," she answered, with dignity, "but perhaps he
loves me; nothing proves the contrary."
"I am certain that it is I whom he loves!" Carmen exclaimed.
"My angel," she said, with a smile, "a woman can never be certain of
such things, even when she holds the most solemn oaths, much less than
when he has not a word, or a gesture, or a look to certify that she
is not mistaken. I will go on then: one of two things is certain--the
count either loves me, or does not love me, and supposes that I am in
love with him; in either case my conduct is laid down for me. I must
wait without provoking an explanation, which cannot fail to take place
between us, and which, I feel convinced, will not be long delayed. In
that case, Carmen, I swear to you to be to the count just what I ought
to be, that is to say, frank and loyal; and if, after this explanation,
any doubts remain in the count's mind, it will be because he was
determined to retain them, and nothing will be left me but to bow my
head sadly, and yield to my fate. That is all I can possibly promise
you, my love; anything else I could not dare do, for my dignity as
a woman, and the respect I owe myself, have traced for me a line of
conduct which I believe my honour commands me not to stray from."
"My dear Dolores, though I am greatly grieved by your resolution, still
I am forced to allow that it is the only one which, under present
circumstances, it is proper for you to adopt; hence, do not feel vexed
by my ill temper, for I am suffering so greatly."
"And I? Do you believe, darling, that I am happy? Oh! Undeceive
yourself if you have that thought; perhaps I am even more unhappy than
you."
At this moment footsteps were heard on the gravel walk.
"Here is somebody," said doña Dolores.
"It is the count," Carmen at once replied.
"How do you know, dear?"
The girl blushed.
"I guess it by the beating of my heart," she said gently.
"He is alone, I think?"
"Yes."
"Oh, Heaven! Can anything new have happened?"
"Oh! Pray do not think that."
The count appeared at the entrance of the arbour. He was really alone.
He bowed to the young ladies, and waited for their permission to
join them. Doña Dolores offered him her hand with a smile, while her
companion bowed to hide her blushes.
"You are welcome, cousin," said doña Dolores. "You arrive late today."
"I am pleased, cousin," he replied, "that you have noticed this
involuntary delay. My friend, don Domingo, who was obliged to go
this morning early two leagues from the city, intrusted me with a
commission, which I was compelled to execute before I could have the
felicity of paying my respects to you."
"A very fair excuse, cousin, and Carmen and I absolve you. Now, sit
down between us and let us talk."
"With the greatest pleasure, cousin."
He entered the arbour, and sat down between the two young ladies.
"Permit me, doña Carmen," he continued, as he bent down courteously to
the young lady, "to offer you my respectful homage, and inquire after
your health."
"I thank you for this attention, caballero," she answered. "Thank
Heaven, my health is very good; but I should wish that my mother's were
the same."
"Is doña María ill?" he eagerly asked.
"I hope not; still she is so indisposed as to keep her room."
The count made a movement to rise.
"Perhaps, my presence might appear improper under the circumstances,"
he said, "and I will--"
"Not at all. Stay, caballero, you are no stranger to us. Your title
of cousin, and betrothed of my dear Dolores," she said significantly,
"sufficiently authorizes your presence."
"It is authorized much more, cousin, by the numerous services you have
rendered us, and which give you a claim to our gratitude."
"Hence, whatever may happen, you and your friend don Domingo will
always be welcome to us, caballero," doña Carmen said with a smile.
"You overwhelm me, señoritas."
"Shall we not have the pleasure of seeing your friend today?"
"Within an hour he will be here, señorita. But you are rising: do you
purpose leaving us, doña Carmen?"
"I ask your permission to leave you for only a few minutes, caballero;
doña Dolores will keep you company, while I go and see whether my
mother is better."
"Do so, señorita; and be kind enough to inform her of the lively
interest I feel in her, and my grief at finding her indisposed."
The young lady bowed and went away, light as a bird. The count and
doña Dolores remained alone. Their situation was singular and most
embarrassing, for they thus unexpectedly found themselves in a position
to have that explanation, from which they both hung back, while
recognising its urgent necessity. If it is difficult for a woman to
confess to a man who is wooing her that she does not love him, this
confession is far more difficult, and painful, too, when it must come
from the gentleman. Some minutes elapsed during which the two young
people did not utter a word, and contented themselves with taking shy
glances at each other. At length, as time was slipping away, and the
count was afraid if he allowed this favourable opportunity to pass,
that it might not occur again for some time, he resolved to speak.
"Well, cousin," he said, with the easiest air he could affect, "are
you beginning to grow used to this secluded life, which the unhappy
circumstances in which you found yourself have brought upon you?"
"I am perfectly accustomed to this calm and tranquil existence,
cousin," she answered, "and if it were not for the sad recollections
which assail me every moment, I confess that I should be very happy."
"I congratulate you, cousin."
"In truth, what do I want for here? Doña María and her daughter love
me. They lavish kindness and attention, and I have a small circle of
devoted friends--can I desire anything else in this world, where real
happiness cannot exist?"
"I envy your philosophy, cousin. Still my duty as a relation--and a
friend," he added, hesitatingly, "oblige me to remind you that this
situation--happy though it is--can only be precarious. You cannot
hope to pass your life in the bosom of this charming family. A
thousand unforeseen events may happen at any moment to cause a violent
separation."
"That is true, cousin," she murmured in a low and trembling voice.
"You know," he continued, "how little it is permitted in this unhappy
country to reckon on the future. A young lady of your age, and
especially of your beauty, cousin, is fatally exposed to a thousand
dangers, from which it is almost impossible for her to escape. I am
your relative, if not your nearest, certainly the most devoted to you.
You do not doubt this, I hope?"
"Oh, Heaven forbid, cousin! Believe, on the contrary, that my heart
retains a profound gratitude for the numberless services you have
rendered me."
"Only gratitude?" he said significantly. "The word is rather vague,
cousin."
She raised her charming limpid eyes to him. "What other word would you
have me employ?" she asked.
"I am wrong, forgive me," he continued. "The fact is, the situation in
which we stand to each other at this moment is so singular, cousin,
that I really do not know how to express myself when addressing you. I
am afraid of displeasing you."
"No, cousin; you have nothing of the sort to fear," she answered, with
a smile. "You are my friend, and from that title you have the same
right to say anything to me, as I have to hear it."
"You give me the title of friend," he said gently. "Your father
desired--"
"Yes," she interrupted him with some degree of vivacity, "I know to
what you allude, cousin; my father had future plans for me, which death
prevented him from realizing."
"Those projects, cousin, it depends on you alone to realize."
She seemed to hesitate for an instant or two, but then went on in a
trembling voice, and with a slight pallor. "My father's wishes are
commands to me, cousin. On the day when it pleases you to ask my hand,
I will give it to you."
"Cousin, cousin," he exclaimed hotly, "I do not mean that. I swore to
your father not only to watch over you, but to secure your happiness
by all the means in my power. The hand which you are ready to give me,
in obedience to your father, I will not accept unless it is at the
same time accompanied by the gift of your heart: whatever may be the
feelings I entertain toward you, I will never force you to contract
marriage which would render you unhappy."
"Thanks, cousin," she murmured, and cast her eyes down; "you are noble
and good."
The young man softly took her hand.
"Dolores," he said to her, "permit me to call you by that name, cousin,
for I am your friend."
"Oh yes," she replied, feebly.
"But," he added, with hesitation, "only your friend."
"Alas!" she sighed.
"That is enough," he said, "it is unnecessary to press you further:
cousin you are free."
"What do you mean?" she exclaimed, anxiously.
"I mean, Dolores, that I give you back your promise. I renounce the
honour of marrying you, though, with your permission, I still claim the
right of watching over your happiness."
"Cousin!"
"Dolores, you do not love me; your heart is given to another; a
marriage between us would cause the misery of both, poor girl. You
have already been sufficiently tried by adversity, at an age when life
should only be strewn with flowers, be happy with the man you love: it
will not be my fault if your fate is not, ere long, united with his. I
will justify the precious title of friend which you have given me by
overthrowing the obstacles which possibly prevent the accomplishment of
your dearest desires."
"Ah!" she exclaimed, with eyes bathed with tears, as she pressed the
hand that held hers, "Why is it not you I love? You so worthy to
inspire tender feelings."
"The heart has these anomalies, my cousin. Who knows, perhaps it is
better that it is so? Now dry your tears, my querida Dolores; only see
in me a devoted friend, a sure confidant to whom you could without
fear, intrust all your charming love secrets, if I did not know them
already."
"What?" she said, looking at him with surprise, "You know--"
"I know all, cousin, so reassure yourself; besides, he has not been so
discreet as you; he has confessed everything to me."
"He loves me!" she exclaimed, drawing herself up to her full height;
"Can it be possible?"
At this time the sound of hurried footsteps was heard outside.
"He is coming to tell you so himself," the count remarked.
At the same instant Dominique entered the arbour.
"Ah!" she said, trembling and falling back on the bench she had left.
"Good God!" Dominique cried, turning pale, "What is going on here?"
"Nothing that need alarm you, my friend," the count answered, with a
smile, "doña Dolores permits you to offer her your homage."
"Can it be true?" he exclaimed, as he rushed towards her, and fell on
his knees.
"Oh, cousin!" the young lady said, in a tone of gentle reproach, "Why
have you taken this unfair advantage of a secret?"
"Which you did not confide to me, but I guessed," he answered.
"Traitor!" the young lady said, suddenly rising, and threatening her
cousin with her finger, "If you have read my secret, I have surprised
yours."
And she disappeared, flying light as a bird, and leaving the two men
face to face. Dominique, amazed at this unexpected flight, for which he
could not attribute a motive, made a movement to dart after her, but
the count stopped him.
"Stay," he said to him, "the heart of a girl contains mysteries which
must not be unveiled. What more do you want, now you are sure of her
love?"
"Oh! My friend," he exclaimed, throwing himself into his arms, "I am
the happiest of men."
"Egotist!" the count said gently to him, "You only think of yourself,
when my heart is perhaps hopelessly suffering."
Doña Dolores had only fled so fast from the arbour in order to restore
a little order to her thoughts, and to recover from the excessive
emotion she was suffering.
As she entered the house Carmen was leaving it. Dolores threw herself
into her arms, and burst into tears. Carmen, terrified at the state in
which she saw her friend, led her gently to her bedroom, and she obeyed
mechanically, without offering the slightest resistance. It took doña
Dolores some time ere she was able to inform her friend of what had
taken place in the arbour, and how the unexpected arrival of Dominique
had forced from her, as it were, an avowal of love. Doña Carmen,
who was far from expecting so quick, and so happy a conclusion, was
overjoyed.
Henceforth no constraint, no misunderstanding; they could indulge in
their sweet dreams of the future without any cause of alarm. What had
they to fear, now they were sure of the love of the two young men? What
obstacle could prevent their speedy union? Thus doña Carmen reasoned,
to reassure the modesty of her friend, which had been rather startled
by the confession which had involuntarily escaped her and filled her
with shame, girls are so: they are willing that the man whom they love
should divine their love, but they consider it an unpardonable weakness
to confess it in his presence.
Carmen, who was some years older than Dolores, and consequently better
able to conquer her own emotions, gently teased her friend about her
weakness, and gradually led her to agree with her, that since the
confession of her love was made, she did not regret it.
They then quitted their room, and composing their faces to efface all
traces of emotion, proceeded to the garden. It was deserted.