XIV

I was awakened in the morning by the whispering of the children, who in vain tried to respect my sleep. The doves which had been recently caught, and, with clipped wings, kept in empty boxes, cooed as they caught sight of the first rays of light penetrating through the cracks of their prison.

“Don’t open the door,” said Felipe; “don’t open it, for brother is asleep, and⁠ ⁠…”

“But María has already called us,” replied the little fellow.

“No, she hasn’t; I’ve been awake a good while, and she hasn’t called.”

“Yes, she has. I know what you want⁠—to run down to the ravine ahead of me and then say that all the blackfish are on your hooks.”

“Well, as I had all the work of setting them properly⁠ ⁠…” Felipe broke in.

“What talk! Why, it is Juan Ángel who sets them for you in the good places.”

He persisted in opening the door.

“Don’t open it,” said Felipe, somewhat put out. “Wait and I’ll see if Efraín is asleep.”

Saying this, he came on tiptoe towards my bed. I seized him by the arm, and said, “So, you rascal, you take away his fish, do you?”

Both laughed, and came forward to make their defence. All was settled by my promise to go out in the afternoon and witness the setting of the hooks. I rose, and leaving them busy in shutting up the doves, which were flying about and trying to get out under the door, crossed the garden. The orange-blossoms, sweet basil, and roses were giving to the breeze their most delicate odors, as they received the caress of the first rays of the sun, now appearing above the crest of Morrillos, and touching with rose and gold the light clouds far up by the zenith.

Don Jerónimo and Carlos were walking in the corridor by their rooms, and talking together, when I leaped over the garden wall so as to reach the outer court.

“Aha!” said Señor M⁠⸺, “you’ve up early, like a good farmer. I imagined you were a sleepyhead like your friend here when he came from Bogotá; but anyone living with me has to become an early riser, I assure you.”

He went on to give a long list of the advantages which arise from not sleeping much; to all which it might have been replied that what he called sleeping but little was in reality sleeping a great deal, beginning early, for he confessed that he was in the habit of going to bed at seven or eight, so as to avoid nervousness. The arrival of Braulio, whom Juan Ángel had gone to summon at daybreak, in accordance with my directions, prevented us from enjoying the peroration of Señor M⁠⸺’s discourse.

Braulio had a pair of dogs with him, which one who knew them less well than I would have had difficulty in recognizing as the heroes of the hunt of the day before. Mayo growled at sight of them, and came to hide himself behind me with signs of invincible dislike; he, with his white and still handsome hair, his drooping ears, and his stern frown, had an inexpressibly aristocratic air, compared with the mountaineer’s hunting-dogs. Braulio gave me a respectful greeting, and came up to ask after the family; I grasped his hand affectionately. His dogs fawned upon me, to show that they liked me better than Mayo.

“You will have a chance to show your shooting,” said I to Carlos. “I have sent to get two good dogs from Santa Elena, and here is a companion with whom the deer had better not try any tricks, and his pups are very clever.”

“What, those?” asked Carlos, disdainfully.

“With such mangy curs!” added Don Jerónimo.

“Yes, sir, with those identical dogs.”

“I’ll not believe it, even if I see it,” answered Señor M⁠⸺, resuming his walk along the corridor.

They had just brought us coffee, and I made Braulio take the cup meant for me. Carlos and his father did not conceal their surprise at my courtesy towards the mountaineer.

Shortly afterwards, Señor M⁠⸺ and my father rode away to inspect the farm-work. Braulio, Carlos, and I devoted ourselves to getting the rifles ready, and to gauging the load according to my friend’s ideas. We were busy with this when my mother sent word that she wanted to speak to me. She was waiting for me in her sewing-room. María and my sister had gone to the bath. Asking me to sit down, she said: “Your father insists that María ought to know of Carlos’s proposal. Do you think so, too?”

“I think that whatever my father desires should be done.”

“I imagine you say that to prove yourself obedient, and not because his decision does not trouble you.”

“I have agreed to do what he wishes; besides, María is not yet engaged to me, and is at perfect liberty to decide according to her own judgment. I promised to say nothing to her of what we determined upon, and I have kept my promise.”

“I am afraid that if María supposes that your father and I do not approve your engagement, she will be much affected and perhaps made sick. Your father has not thought it best to speak to Señor M⁠⸺ about María’s disease, for fear he might think it a mere pretext for declining his offer; and as both he and his son know that she has a dowry⁠—well, I cannot explain it, but you understand. What must we do, then, do you think, to prevent María from imagining even for an instant that we do not want her to be your wife⁠—without, at the same time, going contrary to what your father has just said?”

“There is only one way.”

“What is it?”

“I will tell you, and I am sure you will approve; I beg you to approve. Let us tell María of the secrecy which my father has enjoined upon me in regard to his consent that I should look upon her as the one who is to be my wife. I promise you to be very careful and to do nothing to make my father suspect this necessary disregard of his wishes. Can I go on acting as he commands without doing María more harm than would come from confessing everything to her? Trust in me. Isn’t it true that it is impossible to do as my father desires? Don’t you see it, and think so, too?”

My mother remained silent for a few moments, and then, smiling in the most affectionate manner, she said:

“Very well; but you ought not to promise what you cannot perform. And how shall I tell her of Carlos’s proposal?”

“Just as you would tell Emma, under similar circumstances; and afterwards you can tell her what you have promised. If I am not mistaken, your first words will give her pain, since she will fear that you and my father are strongly opposed to our marriage. She overheard what you said, once, about her disease, and only your kind treatment, and the conversation she and I had yesterday, have sufficed to reassure her. Forget all about me when you tell her about Carlos’s offer. I shall listen to what you say, behind this door.”

“You will?” asked she, astonished.

“Yes, Señora, I will.”

“And why do you resort to such a plot?”

“María will be glad I did it, after it is all over.”

“What do you think will come of it, then?”

“I shall know how much she is capable of doing for me.”

“But will it not be better, if what you wish is to hear what she says to me, that she should never know that you heard it, and that I consented to your hearing it?”

“Let it be so, if you wish.”

“Ah, you don’t like to concede that.”

“I beseech you not to oppose it.”

“But do you not see that to do what you ask, if she comes to know it, is for me to promise her a thing which, unfortunately, I do not know whether I can grant; since, if her sickness were to return, your father would oppose your marrying her, as I also should have to?”

“She knows that. She will never consent to be my wife if this disease reappears. But have you forgotten what the doctor said?”

“Have it as you wish, then.”

“Listen! there’s her voice. Here they come. Don’t let Emma go through this door.”

María entered, still smiling over what she and Emma had been talking about. With light and almost childish step she crossed my mother’s room, and did not perceive the latter until just as she was opening her own door.

“Ah, were you there?” she exclaimed; then coming nearer, she said: “But how pale you are! You have a headache, haven’t you?”

“No, no; I am well. But I was waiting for you, to speak to you alone. It is a serious matter, too, and I am afraid it will pain you.”

María fixed a brilliant gaze upon my mother, and paling slightly, asked her: “What can it be? What is it?

“Sit down here,” said my mother, pointing to a stool at her feet.

She sat down, vainly trying to smile, and her face took on an enchanting expression of gravity.

“I am going to speak to you just as I would to Emma, in a like situation.”

“Yes, Señora, I am listening.”

“Your father has charged me to tell you that Señor M⁠⸺ has asked your hand for his son Carlos.”

“My hand?” she exclaimed, in amazement, involuntarily rising to her feet. But she at once resumed her seat, covering her face with her hands; and I heard her sob.

“What must I tell him, María?”

“He charged you to tell me?” she asked, in broken tones.

“Yes, daughter; and it was his duty to let you know this.”

“But why are you the one to tell me?”

“What would you have me do?”

“Ah, tell him that I cannot⁠ ⁠… that I am not able⁠ ⁠… that⁠ ⁠… no.”

After an instant’s pause, she lifted her head to look at my mother, who could not help weeping with her, and said:

“Do they all know it? Did they all want you to tell me?”

“Yes, they all know it but Emma.”

“Only she! Heavens!” She hid her face on her arms, which were resting on my mother’s knees, and remained in that position several minutes. Then lifting her pale face, bedewed with tears, she said: “very well. You have done your duty. I know it all now⁠ ⁠…”

“But, María,” tenderly interrupted my mother, “is it, then, such a misfortune that Carlos should wish to be your husband? Is he not⁠ ⁠…”

“I beg of you⁠ ⁠… I do not wish⁠ ⁠… I do not need to know more. So they have let you propose it to me! All, all of them have favored it! Then I say,” she went on, in a voice full of energy, in spite of her sobs⁠—“I say that I will die sooner than consent to this. Ah, this gentleman does not know, does he, that I have the same disease my mother died of, when she was still very young? Alas! what shall I do now without her?”

“And am I not here? Do not I love you with all my soul?”

My mother was not so strong as she thought.

Down my cheeks rolled tears. I felt them as they dropped upon my hands resting on the knob of the door which hid me.

María answered my mother, “But why, then, do you propose this to me?”

“Because it was necessary that this no should be spoken by you, even though I supposed you would speak it.”

“And you are the only one who supposed I would?”

“Perhaps another supposed so, too. If you knew how much sorrow, how many sleepless nights, this thing has caused the one you think most blameworthy⁠ ⁠…”

“You mean papa?” said María, already less pale.

“No; Efraín.”

María gave a faint cry, and letting her head fall on my mother’s lap, remained motionless. The latter was just opening her lips to call me, when María slowly rose, and said, almost smiling, as she fastened up her hair with trembling hands: “I was wrong to cry so, wasn’t I? I thought⁠ ⁠…”

“Calm yourself, and dry those tears. I want to see you again as happy as when you came in. You must appreciate the generosity of his conduct⁠ ⁠…”

“Yes, Señora. He must not see that I have been crying, must he?” She caught up my mother’s handkerchief to wipe her eyes.

“Did not Efraín do right to consent to have me tell you all?”

“Perhaps so⁠—why, of course.”

“But you say that as if⁠—your papa imposed the condition upon him, thought it was necessary that he should leave you entirely free in this matter.”

“The condition? Condition of what?”

“He made him promise never to tell you that we knew and approved the relations between you.”

María’s cheeks became crimson at hearing this; dotted as they still were with tears, they were precisely like those fresh roses moist with dew which she picked for me mornings. Her eyes were fastened to the floor.

“Why did he make him promise that?” said she, finally, in a tone which I could scarcely hear. “Was I to blame? Am I doing wrong, then?”

“No, daughter; but your papa thought that precaution was necessary on account of your disease⁠ ⁠…”

“Precaution? Am I not well now? Don’t they think I shall not be sick any more? And how could Efraín be the cause of my sickness?”

“It would be impossible, seeing that he loves you so much, perhaps more than you love him.”

“What ought I to do? I will do whatever they wish.”

“Carlos will speak to you today of his hopes.”

“To me?”

“Yes; listen: you will say to him, remaining as calm as possible, of course, that you cannot accept his offer, although it is a great honor to you, because you are very young, letting him understand that your refusal gives you real pain⁠—”

“But this will be when we are all together?”

“Yes,” answered my mother, delighted with the frankness revealed in her voice and glance; “I think I deserve to be treated very kindly by you.”

She made no reply to this. She put her arm about my mother’s neck, and remained in that position a few minutes, her face wearing an expression of the greatest tenderness. Then she swiftly crossed the room, and disappeared behind the curtains in the door of her own room.