XVI

Ten days had passed since that painful interview; not trusting myself to adopt the bearing with María which my father desired, and sorrowfully reflecting on the proposal of marriage made for Carlos, I had embraced all sorts of pretexts for keeping away from the house. I passed those days either shut up in my room or in company with José⁠—oftenest tramping aimlessly about outdoors. I usually carried a book, which I never read; my rifle, which I never fired; and took Mayo along, who tired himself out following me.

One morning, my mother came into my room, and seating herself at the head of my bed, from which I had not yet risen, said to me: “Things cannot go on this way. You must not keep on like this. I cannot bear it.”

I kept silence, and she continued: “What you are doing is not what your father requested; it is much more. Your conduct is unfeeling towards us, and even more unfeeling towards María. I thought that the reason you went so often towards Luisa’s house was the affection they all have for you there; but Braulio came yesterday, and said you had not been there for five days. What is it that makes you so unhappy, and drives you off so constantly into solitude, as if you could not endure being with us any more?”

Her eyes filled with tears.

“Señora,” I replied, “María ought to be completely free to accept the good-fortune which Carlos offers her; and I, as his friend, ought not to destroy the hopes of being accepted which he may with so much reason cherish.”

“How can you imagine such a thing?” asked my mother, in surprise. “She can scarcely have seen your friend more than once or twice.”

“But, my dear mother, there is only a little time now to wait for what I have thought to be either confirmed or disproved. I think it is well worth the pain of waiting.”

“You are very unfair, and-you will repent it. María, in her self-respect and sense of duty, is concealing the great suffering your conduct is causing her; she can control herself better than you. I can scarcely believe my eyes; I am amazed at what you have said. And all the while I was thinking I should give you the greatest happiness, and make all right again, by telling you what Mayn said to us when he went away yesterday.”

“What was it? Do tell me,” said I, beseeching her.

“Why should I, after what you have said?”

“Will she not always be my sister?”

“It’s too late for you to think that. Oh, I wouldn’t have supposed you could act as you do! No, a son of mine ought not to do that. Your sister! And you forget that you are talking to one who knows you better than you know yourself. Your sister!⁠—when I know that she has loved you since the time I used to put you to sleep together on my lap. And is this the time for you to say that⁠—just as I was coming to talk to you, in fright at the suffering which the poor thing vainly tries to conceal from me?”

“I do not wish, even for an instant, to give you cause for such displeasure. Tell me what I ought to do to make amends for my censurable conduct, as you think it.”

“That’s much better. Don’t you want me to love her as much as I do you?”

“Certainly, Señora; and you do, don’t you?”

“So I do, and would, even if I could forget that she has no mother but me; for she fully deserves it. Well, the doctor says that María’s disease is not the same that Sara had.”

“Did he say that?”

“Yes; and your father, in his own great relief, wanted me to tell you.”

“Then can I be with her as before?” asked I, feverishly.

“Almost.”

“Oh, she will forgive me, don’t you think so? The doctor has said there is no danger? Carlos must know this,” I added.

My mother looked at me in amazement.

“Why should it be hidden from him? I’ll tell you what you must do, since the M⁠⸺⁠s are coming tomorrow⁠—so they send word. You tell María this afternoon⁠—but what can you say to her to explain your indifference, without disobeying your father? And even if you could speak of what he asked of you, you would not be able to clear yourself, since the cause of your actions during the past few days is something that pride and delicacy should keep you from revealing. This, then, is the result: I myself shall have to tell María the true reason of your unhappiness.”

“But if you do that, and if I have been foolish to believe what I did, what will she think of me?”

“She will not think so badly of you as to suppose you capable of a willfulness and vacillation which are more despicable than anything else.”

“You are right, up to a certain point; but I beg you not to tell María of what we have been talking about. I have done wrong, though perhaps I have suffered for it more than she has, and I must make amends. I promise you that I will make amends. Only, I ask two days to do it in the right way.”

“Very well,” said she, rising to go. “Shall you go out today?”

“Yes, Señora.”

“Where are you going?”

“To pay Emigdio a visit; it is unavoidable, for I sent word yesterday to his father’s overseer that they might expect me today at breakfast.”

“But you will return early?”

“At four or five.”

“Come to dinner here.”

“Yes. And now are you satisfied with me again?”

“To be sure,” said she, smiling. “Well, till afternoon, then. Give my best regards, and the girls’, to the ladies.”