XXXVI

Ten days passed. Joy returned to our home; for my father, after a critical illness, was convalescent. The doctor advised us to keep him as free as possible from all care. So we studiously avoided speaking to him about business matters. As soon as he could sit up, we asked him to choose a book to have read to him a few moments at a time; and he chose the Diary of Napoleon at St. Helena⁠—a book which always interested him intensely.

Gathering in my mother’s sewing-room, Emma, María, and I used to take turns in reading to him; and if we saw him growing sad at any time, Emma would play on the guitar to amuse him. At other times, he would talk to us of the days of his youth, of his parents and brothers, or would speak enthusiastically of the journeys which he had made as a young man. Sometimes he would joke with my mother about the customs of Chocó, only to laugh at her coming to the defence of her native land.

“How old was I when we were married,” he once asked her, after having spoken of the first days of their wedded life, and of a fire which left them completely ruined two months after their marriage.

“Twenty-one,” she replied.

“No, child; I was twenty. I deceived your mother, as I was afraid she would think me a mere boy. And as wives never remember how old their husbands are, after once they begin to get old, it has been easy for me to correct the account.”

“Only twenty?” exclaimed Emma.

“That’s what he says,” replied my mother.

“And how old were you, mamma?” asked María.

“I was sixteen; just a year older than you are.”

“But make her tell you,” said my father, “how much I thought of her from the time she was fifteen, for it was then I resolved to marry her.”

“Do tell us, mamma,” said María.

“Ask him first,” replied she, “what he determined to do on account of thinking so much of me as he says.”

We all turned to my father, and he said, “Why, I resolved to marry her.”

The conversation was broken off by Juan Ángel’s coming in from the village with the mail. He had several papers and two letters, both of the latter in Señor A⁠⸺’s handwriting, and one of them dated some time before. As soon as I saw the signature, I handed them to my father.

“Ah yes,” he said, returning them to me; “I was expecting letters from him.”

The first one simply announced that he would not be able to start on his journey to Europe under four months, and that, therefore, I need not hurry my preparations. I did not dare to look at María.

My one thought was, even if the journey is not given up, I shall have three months more of happiness. My father, completely undisturbed, waited for me to finish the letter, and then said: “What’s to be done? Let me see what the other one says.”

I read the first lines, and perceiving that I should not be able to conceal my agitation, went up to the window as if to get a better light, but really so as to turn my back to the others. The main part of the letter was as follows: “Two weeks ago I wrote you that I should be obliged to delay my journey for four months; but the difficulties in the way have unexpectedly disappeared, and I hasten to notify you that I shall be in Cali the 30th of next January, where I shall hope to meet Efraín, so that we may set out for the coast on February 2nd. I was sorry to hear of your severe sickness, but have just received news that you are out of danger. Give my good wishes to your family for the speedy restoration of your health. I hope, accordingly, that there will be no difficulty in giving me the pleasure of Efraín’s company, for whom, as for yourself, I cherish a particular regard. Be kind enough to let him see this part of the letter.”

When I turned to take my seat, I found my father’s eyes fixed upon me. María and my sister went out.

“What day of the month is it today?” asked my father.

“The twenty-sixth,” I replied.

“Then we have only a month. We can’t go to sleep.”

There was in his accent and face that calmness which revealed an unchangeable resolve. A servant came in to tell me that the horse which I had ordered was ready.

“When you come back from your ride,” said my father, “we will answer that letter, and you yourself can take it to the village, as tomorrow you ought certainly to visit the farms.”

“I shall not be long,” I said, as I went out.

I had to conceal what I was suffering; in solitude to call upon that sweet hope which had flattered me, only to leave me alone in the presence of the reality; alone to grieve, so that María should not see my tears.

I rode down to the broad shores of the river, where it becomes less impetuous as it meets the plains. Sweeping in majestic curves, it flows at first among beautifully carpeted hills, kissing the leaves of the carboneros and guava-trees on the bank; then it hides behind the last mountainous ridges, where it seems to murmur its final adieu to solitude, and at last loses itself in the distant blue plain, where, just then, the setting sun was turning to lilac and gold its undulating stream.

When I returned, climbing up the winding paths that led down to the shore, the night was already putting on its summer splendor. The foam on the waters of the river shone with dazzling whiteness.

The waves quivered in their channels as though whispering secrets to the breezes which hung above them caressingly. The quiet stretches of the river which were not in shadow reflected in their depths the twinkling stars; and where the branches of the forest interlaced from one shore to the other, and formed weird canopies, the fitful light of wandering glowworms was flashed back from below. Only the hum of nocturnal insects broke the silence of the slumbering woods; though from time to time the owl, jealous guardian of the thickets, flew about me giving its sinister hoot.

The house, though already lighted up, was silent when I gave the horse to Juan Ángel. My father was expecting me, walking back and forth in the parlor.

“You were gone long,” said he. “Do you want to write those letters?”

“I should prefer first to talk with you about my journey.”

“Well, what about it?” he said, seating himself.

I remained standing near the table, turning my back to the candle.

“Since the misfortune that has occurred,” I said; “since that loss whose amount I can appreciate, I think I ought to tell you that I do not wish to hold you to the sacrifice involved in the completion of my education. Before the family suffered this defalcation, I told you that I should be well pleased to go on aiding you in your work; but you declined my offer then, and nothing was left for me to say. Now the case is very different, and I hope you will accept my proposition. I will cheerfully renounce the advantages you have proposed me in the completion of my studies, as it is my duty to relieve you from the promise you have given me.”

He replied: “All this is, up to a certain point, very thoughtful and wise. I am sure that honorable feelings inspire you to speak as you have done. But I must tell you that my determination is irrevocable. The expense which the remainder of your education will be to me will not make my situation any worse, and as soon as you have finished your course, the family will gather fruit from the seed I am sowing. Besides,” he added, after a short pause, during which he resumed his walk, “I believe that you have too much pride to break off foolishly what you have so well begun.”

“I will do all within my power,” I answered, in complete despair; “I will do all I can to fulfill the hopes you entertain for me.”

“That is right. Go on calmly. I am sure that by the time you return I shall have successfully carried through the plans I have made to pay my debts. Your position will be a very good one four years from now, and then María will become your wife.”

He relapsed into silence again for some minutes, but finally said, stopping in front of me: “Let us set about the writing, then. Bring the necessaries here; it may do me harm to go into the study.”

He had just finished dictating to me a long and affectionate letter to Señor A⁠⸺, and wanted my mother, who came in just then, to hear it read. I was reading what follows, when María came in, bringing the tea-service for my father: “Efraín will be ready to go to Cali the 30th of January. You will meet him there, and can set out for Buenaventura the 2nd of February, according to your plans.”

María, to whom my back was turned, put down the cup and saucer upon the table within my father’s reach. As she did it she was full in the light. Her face was almost livid. As she took the teapot from Estefana, she had to steady herself by my chair. My father held out his cup for her to fill, but when he saw that her hand trembled so that she was in danger of spilling the tea, looked at her, and said, “That will do⁠—that will do, daughter.”

The cause of her agitation was evident to him. He watched María as she slowly walked towards the dining-room, and then, turning to my mother, asked her, “Do you see that?”

We all remained silent. After a little, I went out under the pretext of carrying the writing materials to the study.