LVII

On the loth of September, two months after María’s death, I had from Emma the last of that story which she had kept from giving me as long as possible. It was in the evening, and Juan was asleep upon my knees; he had fallen into the custom since my return, as if he instinctively guessed that I would try to make up for him María’s love and care.

Emma gave me the key of the closet, in the house on the sierra, in which were kept María’s clothes and all that she had especially left for me.

Early the next morning I set out for Santa ⸻, where my father had been staying for two weeks. He had made all arrangements for my return to Europe, upon which I was to start the eighteenth of that month.

At four in the afternoon of the twelfth I took leave of my father, making him believe that I wanted to spend the night with Carlos, so as to get to Cali earlier in the morning. He had in his hand a sealed packet, which he gave to me, saying: “It is to go to Kingston. It is Salomón’s last will and his daughter’s dowry papers. If my regard for your interests,” he added, in a trembling voice, “made me separate you from her, and hasten her death, perhaps, you will know how to forgive me. Who can do it, if not you?”

Profoundly moved by this affectionate and humble confession, I gave him a reply which made him take me again in his arms. I can still hear the accent of his last farewell.

Riding out into the plain, after fording the Amaime, I waited for Juan Ángel, to tell him to take the mountain road.

I began to hear the sound of the Zabaletas. I could see the tops of the willows. There, at a few steps from the path, was the broad stone which so often had been our seat. At last I was close to the garden, the confidant of our love. The turtledoves were flying about among the orange-trees. The wind was flinging down dry leaves on the paving.

I leaped from my horse and left him to his own will. I had neither voice nor strength to call out. I sat down on the stair where so many times her affectionate voice and loving eyes had said goodbye to me.

A little later, when it was almost night, I heard steps near me. It was an old slave, who had seen my horse loose, and had come to see who his owner was. Mayo followed her painfully. The sight of that dog, friend of my childhood, companion of my days of happiness, made me groan. He put up his head for me to pat, licked the dust from my boots, and sitting down at my feet, whined sorrowfully.

The slave-woman brought me the keys of the house, and told me that Braulio and Tránsito were on the mountain. I went into the parlor and walked several steps without being able to distinguish anything with my misty eyes. I fell upon the sofa where I first told her of my love.

When I lifted my face it was perfectly dark. I opened the door of my mother’s room, and my spurs echoed dismally in that cold spot, smelling of the grave. Then a new pang of grief led me to hurry to the oratory. I was going to ask God for her back again. I was going to look for her where I had held her in my arms, where my lips had rested upon her forehead for the first time. The moon had risen, and its light, entering in through the half-opened lattice, showed all I should find⁠—the funeral drapings on the table where her coffin had rested!

I saw a light in my mother’s room; Juan Ángel had just placed a candle on the table. I took it up, motioning to him not to follow me, and went to María’s room. A trace of her perfume was there. Her crucifix was still on the table, withered flowers at its foot. I opened the closet; it exhaled the loved fragrance. My hands and lips were pressed to those garments which I knew so well. I drew out the drawer of which Emma had told me; the precious box was in it. A cry escaped me, and a shadow fell upon my eyes as those braids, which still seemed to know my kisses, unrolled in my hands.

An hour later⁠—My God! thou knowest it all! I had run through the garden calling her, asking her of the trees that had sheltered us, and of the waste whose echoes could only give me back her name. At the edge of the ravine, lined with rosebushes, in whose jagged bottom lay the mist and thundered the river, a criminal idea for a moment dried my tears and cooled my brow.

A person hidden from me by the rosebushes spoke my name. It was Tránsito. As she came up to me she stood for a few moments in amazement; she must have been frightened at my face. The bitter reply I made to her, when she besought me to leave that spot, revealed to her, perhaps, the disgust with life which I then felt. The poor girl began to cry, and urged me no more for a moment; but soon she got fresh courage and said, with hesitation, in the grieving voice of a complaining slave, “Don’t you want to see Braulio either, nor even my child?”

“Don’t cry, Tránsito, and forgive me.” I said. “Where are they?”

She took my hand, and led me to the corridor, where her husband was waiting for me. After I had embraced Braulio, Tránsito laid on my knees a pretty baby, six months old, and kneeling at my feet, smiled in pleasure to see me caress her little boy.