XI

I was unnaturally gay the rest of the day. At the table I talked enthusiastically of the beautiful women of Bogotá, and especially recounted the graces and wit of P⁠⸺. My father seemed pleased to hear me; Eloisa would have liked to have me keep on till night. María said nothing, though I thought she was unusually pale. She kept on playing with Juan, and finally went out into the garden with the boy.

All the rest of the afternoon, and in the early evening, I had to help my father with his writing. At eight we were called to the dining-room. As we sat down, I was astonished to see one of the lilies in María’s hair. There was on her lovely face such an air of noble goodness and sweet submissiveness that I felt as if magnetized by something in her that I had not known before, and could not leave off gazing at her. An affectionate and happy child, a woman as pure and charming as a dream⁠—as such I had known her; but for her to be gentle and resigned before my angry pride⁠—that was new to me. I felt unworthy so much as to look at her.

I replied confusedly to questions which they asked me about José and his family. I could not conceal my perturbation from my father; but he turned to María, and said, with a smile, “That’s a lovely lily you have in your hair; I do not remember any of that kind in the garden.”

María replied in a low voice, “This kind grows only in the mountains.”

“And who sent them to you?” asked my father.

María was embarrassed; she glanced at me, and seemed to find something new and encouraging in my eyes, for she replied, in a firmer tone, “Efraín threw some into the garden; and it seemed to me a pity they should be thrown away, they are so rare. This is one of them.”

“María,” I said to her, “if I had known you would like these flowers so much, I would have kept them for you; but they did not seem to me as beautiful as the ones that are in the vase on my table every day.”

She understood now the cause of my resentment, and her glance told me so plainly.

That night, as the family was leaving the parlor, María happened to be seated near me. After much hesitation, I said to her, “María, they were for you, but I did not find yours.”

She began to murmur some excuse, when my hand accidentally touched hers, and I seized it and held it involuntarily. She stopped speaking. Her eyes had a frightened look, and turned away from mine. She put her free hand to her forehead, as if in pain, and leaned her head upon it, burying her bare arm in the sofa-pillow. At last she made an effort, and stood up; and then, as if finishing what she had begun, she said, though in so low a tone that I could scarcely hear her, “Then⁠ ⁠… I⁠ ⁠… I will pick the most beautiful flowers every day.”

Then she disappeared.

Souls like María’s are not ignorant of the common language of love; but they bow tremblingly at the first caress of the one they love, as the wood-poppy does under the wing of the wind.

I had confessed my love to María; she had encouraged me to confess it, humbling herself like a slave to pick up those flowers. I repeated to myself with delight her last words; her voice was still whispering in my ear, “Then I will pick the most beautiful flowers every day.”