ON Wednesday morning the Marquis del Torre had a last interview
with his bride. She was to go to her last maidenly confession on
that day; and he called early in the morning, in his uniform as
General of the Liberal army. When he came upon her she was all in white
and girt about with pearls. Pearls were in her dark hair, pearls in the
folds of her white dress, pearls in her neck, no other color about her
save the magic amethystine in her eyes. Her face was pale.
Del Torre bowed over her hand, then stood beside her. After the
greeting, he said:
“Señorita Dolores, I am still your guardian--I would only marry you to
make you happy. Do you think I can?” His lips were paler than hers, and
his voice sounded cold. She only answered:
“Quite sure, señor.”
“And the rose I saw you give my nephew--is it dead?”
Again the rush of color to her face; but, after a start, she answered,
“It is dead.” She stammered slightly, trying to say more; to relieve
her embarrassment he rose and left her. “Hasta mañaña!”
“Mañaña por la mañaña,” she answered, forcing brightness in her voice.
The marquis went out into the sunlight; he felt his heart as cold as
hers.
But again Dolores burst into tears; then, quickly drying them, she
wrote a letter and sealed it. Then she called Jacinta.
The Indian nurse came quickly, and as she stood looking at Dolores a
dog’s love was in her eyes. “This letter--the marquis must have it in
the morning,” said the countess.
“He shall have it--in the morning,” answered Jacinta. Then Dolores went
to her confessor. And Jacinta could not read the letter; so she took
it to Don Ramon first, and asked him what it was. And it was Don Ramon
read it, Jacinta looking on.
Then Ramon girt his sword about him, and went to mass.