XXXIV

The next day, the 12th of December, was to be Tránsito’s wedding-day. After our return, word was sent to José that we would be in the parish church between seven and eight. It had been decided that my mother, María, Felipe, and I should go, as my sister was to stay to get ready all sorts of presents, which were to be sent very early to the mountain, so that the bridal couple should find them on their return.

That night, after supper, my sister was playing the guitar, seated on a sofa in the corridor outside of my room, and María and I were talking as we leaned over the railing.

“Something,” she was saying, “something troubles you, and I cannot guess what.”

“But what can it be? Don’t you see me happy? Am I not as you hoped I would be when I returned to you?”

“No; you have tried to appear so, but I have discovered something new in you⁠—you are dissembling.”

“What, with you?”

“Yes.”

“You are right; I am compelled to live feigning.”

“No, Señor. I do not mean that, but tonight.”

“For four months I have been deceiving⁠ ⁠…”

“Me also? Me? Could you deceive me?”

She tried to look into my eyes, to see if what she feared were true; but as I laughed at her earnestness, she said, as if ashamed of it, “Explain that to me.”

“There isn’t any explanation.”

“For God’s sake⁠—for the sake of what you most love, explain it to me.”

“It is all true.”

“It can’t be.”

“But let me finish. To take revenge for what you were just thinking, I will not tell you unless you ask me for the sake of what you know I most love.”

“I do not know what it is.”

“Well, then, convince yourself that I have deceived you.”

“No, no; I was going to tell you. But how can I tell you?”

“Think.”

She paused a moment, and then said, “I have thought now.”

“Tell me, then.”

“For the sake of what you love most, next to God and your⁠—I hope it is I.”

“No, it won’t do that way.”

“Why, how then? I am afraid that what you say is true.”

“Say it another way.”

“I will try; but if you don’t like it this time⁠ ⁠…”

“What then?”

“Nothing; please don’t look at me.”

“I’m not.”

Then she succeeded in saying, in a very low voice, “For the sake of María, who loves you⁠ ⁠…”

“So much!” I finished, taking her hands in mine.

“Now tell me,” she urged.

“I have been deceiving you, because I have not dared to confess to you how much I really love you.”

“Why haven’t you told me?”

“Because I was afraid.”

“Afraid of what?”

“Of finding that you love me less than I do you.”

“Afraid of that? Then you were the one to be deceived.”

“If I had told you⁠ ⁠…”

“And do not the eyes say things against one’s will?”

“Do you think so?”

“I do, because yours have shown it to me. Now tell me the reason you have been so strange tonight. Have you seen the doctor recently?”

“Yes.”

“What did he say about me?”

“The same thing as before; that you would not be sick again. Don’t talk about that.”

“Only one word. What else did he say? He thinks my disease is the same as my mother’s⁠ ⁠… perhaps he is right.”

“Oh no! he never said that. And aren’t you, then, perfectly well now?”

“Yes; still, in spite of that, many times, oh, many times I have thought about that sickness with dread. But I believe that God has heard me; I have prayed to him so earnestly that it should not come back.”

“Perhaps not so earnestly as I have.”

“Pray for it always.”

“Always, María. Listen. It is true that there is a reason for my being disturbed tonight; but you see that you have made me forget it.”

I told her of the news we had received two days before.

“Oh, that black bird!” she said, as soon as I ended; and she looked towards my room in terror.

“How can you be so much troubled by a mere coincidence?”

“What I dreamed that night is what troubles me.”

“Do you still think you can’t tell me?”

“Not now; some time. Let us talk with Emma before you go. She is so good to us.”

In half an hour we separated, promising each other to get up very early to begin our ride to the parish church.

Juan Ángel knocked at my door before five. Everything was ready. María came out with a cup of coffee for me, and called Felipe to come and get his.

“We’ll see today,” said he, smiling mischievously; “we’ll see who’ll be afraid. And the black is just raging.”

María was as bewitching as my eyes must have told her she was. Upon her thick and shining braids rested a graceful black velvet hat, trimmed and tied under her chin with Scotch ribbon; on its brim, half hidden by her blue veil, was a rose still dewy. With one hand she held up the skirt of her black dress. Her blue belt was fastened with a diamond clasp. A deep cape hung from her shoulders.

“Which horse do you want to ride?” I asked her.

“The black.”

“But you can’t do that,” I replied, in surprise.

“Why not? Are you afraid he will throw me?”

“Of course I am.”

“I have ridden him before. Don’t you think I can do it again? Ask Emma if I am not more skillful than she. You will see how gentle the black will be with me.”

“Why, he won’t let you touch him. It is so long since you rode him that your skirt may frighten him.”

“I promise not to even show him the whip.”

Felipe, already mounted on his little chestnut, Chibo, was pricking him with his new spurs, and riding about the courtyard. My mother, too, was ready to set out. I placed her on her favorite bay, the only one, according to her, that was not a wild animal. I was very uneasy as I helped María mount the black. Before she leaped from the step to the saddle, she patted the horse’s neck. He had been very restless, but then stood motionless awaiting his load, and champing his bit, mindful of the lightest rustling of her dress.

“Don’t you see?” said María, already on his back. “He knows me. When papa bought him for you, this foot was sore, and I made Juan Ángel dress it carefully every afternoon.”

The horse snorted uneasily; but he knew that caressing voice. We set out, and Juan Ángel followed us, carrying on the pommel of his saddle a bundle containing the garments which the ladies would need in the village. María’s horse, proud of his load, seemed to wish to display his smoothest, daintiest pace. The jet-black mane quivered on his arched neck, and, falling between the short, eager ears, veiled his gleaming eyes. María rode him with an air of careless grace⁠—as secure as if she were upon a plodding mule.

After we had gone several rods, she seemed to have lost all fear of the horse; and observing that I was reassured, she said to me, so that my mother could not hear her:

“I’m going to give him a cut, just one.”

“Be careful how you do it.”

“Only one, just to show you that he won’t mind it. You are unfair to the black, and prefer that gray you are on.”

“Now that he is so good to you, it will be different.”

“You rode him the night you went for the doctor.”

“Yes, I remember; he is a fine animal.”

“But, after all, you don’t value him as he deserves.”

“You even less; for you want to mortify him.”

“You shall see that he will not mind.”

“Carefully, carefully, María! Please give me the whip.”

“We’ll let it go till we reach the plain.”

She laughed at the anxiety into which her threat threw me.

“What is it?” asked my mother, who had overtaken us; I had slowed our pace so that she might come up with us.

“Nothing, Señora,” answered María; “only Efraín is sure the horse is going to throw me.”

“No, it is because you⁠ ⁠…” I began, but she put the whip-handle to her lips with a gesture bidding me be silent, and then handed it to me.

“How is it you are so brave today?” my mother asked her. “The other time you rode that horse you were afraid.”

“Yes, and you had to take another instead,” added Felipe.

“You are doing me a very bad turn,” replied María; “the Señor had made up his mind that I was a famous horsewoman.”

“But aren’t you afraid today?” persisted my mother.

“Yes, I am, but not so much. The horse is much more gentle, and then there is someone to scold him if he rears.”

When we reached the plain, the sun, tearing his way through the clouds which swathed the mountains behind us, flung metallic rays upon the forests which here and there came down into the level in winding lines or in isolated clumps of trees; the waters of the little brooks which we crossed, coming out into the gleam of the sun’s light, ran away to hide themselves in the shadows, and the distant windings of the Zabaletas seemed as if of liquid silver, bordered by the blue of the thickets.

As we entered the great forest, leaving the plain behind us, María and I remained silent for a long time; but Felipe did not break off his chatter, asking his mother a thousand questions about all he saw.

Finally, María turned to me, and said: “What are you thinking about so intently? You are becoming sad again, as you were last night⁠—very different from what you were a little while ago. Is the misfortune, then, so great?”

“I was not thinking about that; you make me forget that.”

“Is the loss irrecoverable?”

“Perhaps not. But what I was thinking about is Braulio’s happiness.”

“About his only?”

“I can easily imagine Braulio’s. He is going to be completely happy from today on; but I am to go away, and I am to be away from you for years.”

She lifted her veil, and said, “That loss, then, is not very great?”

“Why do you insist on talking about that?”

“Can’t you guess? If it is only my thought, I ought not to confide it to you. But I should prefer that you had not seen me so cheerful today after what you told me last night.”

“Is it this news that made you cheerful?”

“It made me sad when you told me; but afterwards⁠ ⁠…”

“Afterwards, what?”

“I thought differently about it.”

“And that is what made you pass from sadness to joy?”

“Not exactly, but⁠ ⁠…”

“Well, to feel as you do today?”

“Didn’t I say so? I knew it would not please you to see me this way, and I don’t want you to think me capable of being merely silly.”

“You! Do you think I ever could?”

“Why not? I am only a girl like any other, and might not look on serious things as I ought to.”

“No, you would not do that.”

“Yes, Señor; yes, I would; at least, it will seem so, till I explain myself. But let us talk with mamma a little, lest she think it strange you talk so much with me; and meanwhile I will sec if I can tell you all.”

We did so. But, after a quarter of an hour, our horses were again side by side. We were coming out once more into the open country, and could see the white spire of the parish church, and the red roofs of the houses, in the midst of the foliage of the gardens.

“Tell me, María,” I said then.

“There! you see that you yourself want to clear it up. But suppose the reason I am going to give you is not a good one? It would have been better not to be happy; but as you have not chosen to teach me to dissemble⁠—”

“How teach you what I do not know?”

“What a fine memory! Have you forgotten what you said to me last night? I am going to take advantage of that lesson.”

“From today on?”

“Not after this,” she replied, smiling at the very air of gravity which she tried to put on. “Listen, then. I could not help being happy today, because as soon as I left you last night I thought that out of this loss of papa’s might come⁠—but what would he think of me if he knew this?”

“Explain yourself, and I will tell you what he would think.”

“If this sum he has lost is so large,” she said to me then, combing the mane of her horse with her whip-handle, “papa will have more need of you⁠—he will consent to have you assist him now⁠—”

“Yes, yes,” I responded, mastered by the timid and anxious glance she gave me, at this confession of what she so much feared would make her appear at fault.

“Do you really think it may be so?”

“I will relieve my father of the promise to send me to Europe to complete my studies; I will agree to struggle at his side till the end to save his credit; and he will consent⁠—he must consent! In that way we shall never separate, you and I⁠—never separate. And then, very soon⁠ ⁠…”

Without lifting her eyes, she assented; and her blush, beneath the veil with which the breeze kept playing, was angelic.

When we reached the village, Braulio came to greet us, and to say that the priest was awaiting us. The venerable man, in fact, when he saw us approaching his house at the side of the church, came out to meet us, and invited us to breakfast with him; but we excused ourselves as politely as possible.

As the ceremony began, Braulio’s face proclaimed his happiness. Tránsito looked persistently at the floor, and made her answers in an unnatural voice. José, standing beside the priest, held a candle in his unsteady grasp; and his eyes, which passed continually from the face of the priest to that of his daughter, if they were hot actually full of tears, showed that they had been.

As the minister blessed the joined hands of the pair, Tránsito ventured to look at her husband; in that look, love, humility, and goodness were mingled; it was the only promise she could make the man she loved, after the one she had just made in the presence of God.

We all heard mass, and as we left the church, Braulio told us that while we were mounting they would set out from the village; but that we should overtake them not very far away. In half an hour we came up with the pretty pair and José, who was leading on ahead the old gray mule on which he had brought down the presents for the priest, vegetables for the market, and the holiday finery of the young people. We slowed down our pace to theirs for a little while. Tránsito walked by María’s side; she spoke little, but in her bearing and face there was an indescribable union of modesty, gratitude, and unaffected joy.

As we took leave of them, promising to come to their house that afternoon, Tránsito smiled on María in an almost sisterly way; the latter took the hand timidly offered her by her goddaughter, and said, “I am sorry to think of your going all the way on foot.”

“Why, Señorita?”

“Señorita?”

“Madrina, then?”

“Yes, yes.”

“Thanks. We shall go slowly, shan’t we?” she said, addressing the mountaineers.

“Yes,” answered Braulio; “and if you are not ashamed to lean on me going up the steep places, you will get through without being tired.”

My mother insisted that José should bring all the family to dine with us the next day, and he had to promise that he would try to do it. On our way home the talk was general, as María and I tried to make it for the sake of my mother, who was complaining of fatigue, as she always did when riding. But just as we were reaching the house, Marfa said to me in a voice which I alone could hear, “Are you going to speak of that to papa today?”

“Yes.”

“Don’t do it today.”

“Why not?”

“Because.”

“When do you want me to do it?”

“If within a week he says nothing to you about the journey, then seek an opportunity for telling him. And do you know what one would be the best. Some day after you have worked together a great deal; I am sure he will then be much pleased with your offer of aid.”

“But in the meantime I cannot endure not to know whether he will accept.”

“Suppose he doesn’t?”

“Are you afraid he won’t?”

“Yes.”

“What shall we do, in that case?”

“You will obey him.”

“And you?”

“Alas! I do not know.”

“You must believe that he will accept, María.”

“No, no; for if I am mistaken, I know that it will do me great harm. But you do it the way I say; it may be, in that way, all will turn out well.”