XXXI

The next day I had to exert myself not to let my father see how disagreeable it was for me to have to go with him to his farms in the valley. As was his custom whenever he was about to undertake a journey, no matter how short it might be, he supervised the arrangement of everything, though it was not necessary. We had to take along some delicacies for the week we were to be away, of a kind my father liked very much, and he laughed as he saw what Emma and María were preparing in the dining-room, and putting into the saddlebags.

“Heaven help me! daughters. Will all that go in?”

“Yes, Señor,” answered María.

“Why, there is enough for a bishop! I see you are taking great pains that we shall lack nothing.”

María, who was kneeling down and packing away the provisions, and whose back was towards my father, said to him, timidly, just as I came in, “Well, as you are going to be away so many days⁠ ⁠…”

“Not many, child,” he replied, laughing. “I say nothing of myself; I thank you for it all; but this boy will be so discontented down there. Look,” he added, speaking to me.

“At what?”

“Why, at all they are putting in. With such a supply I may conclude to stay two weeks.”

“But it was mamma who ordered it,” remarked María.

“Don’t you be troubled, little one, everything is very good; but I do not see any of the last purchase of wine, and there is none to be had down there; we must take some.”

“It won’t go in,” said María.

“We shall see.”

He went himself to the wine-cellar for the wine he spoke of, and when he came back, with Juan Ángel loaded, in addition, with some cans of salmon, he repeated, “Now we shall see.”

“That too!” exclaimed she, seeing the cans.

As my father set about taking out of the saddlebag a box already packed, María said to him in alarm:

“Can’t that stay?”

“Why, my daughter?”

“It’s the tarts that you like best, and⁠ ⁠… and I made them.”

“Are they for me, too?” asked my father, in a low tone.

“Well, but they are already packed.”

“But I say⁠ ⁠…”

“I’ll be back in a moment,” she interrupted, getting up. “There are some handkerchiefs missing.”

She went out, but came back immediately.

My father, who was persistent even when he was jesting, said to her again, in the same tone as before, “We will change the tarts for wine.”

She scarcely dared look at him, but seeing that breakfast was ready, she said, rising, “Breakfast is served, Señor.” Then, addressing Emma, “Let us leave the rest for Estefana; she will do it well.”

As I was going into the dining-room, María came out of my mother’s apartments, and I stopped her.

“Now,” I said, “cut off the lock of hair you want.”

“Oh dear, no, I can’t do it.”

“Tell me where, then.”

“Wherever it won’t be seen.”

She gave me her scissors. She had opened the locket which was hanging from her neck; offering it to me empty, she said, “Put it in this.”

“And your mother’s?”

“I shall put that on top, so that yours cannot be seen.”

She did so, saying to me, “You seem to be pleased to go away today.”

“No, no; it is not to offend my father; it is right for me to offer to help him in his work.”

“Of course; that is proper. I, too, will try not to appear sad, so that mamma and Emma will not be displeased with me.”

“Think of me often,” I said to her, kissing her mother’s hair, and the hand with which she was putting it in the locket.

“Ah, often, very often!” she replied, looking at me with that tenderness and innocence which so well knew how to mingle in her eyes.

We separated, so as to enter the dining-room by different doors.