She thought she had locked it. For just one hour a foolish secret hope had come to her, she wondered whether she could make a paste of chalk and cream to spread upon her face. She who had sneered so often at the befloured grandmothers of the court wondered for a few moments whether she had learned anything on the stage that would aid her now. She thought she had locked the door, and with hurried hands and beating heart she laid on the coat, the grotesque pallor, and as she gazed into the mirror and recognized the futility of her attempt she caught the image of Uncle Pio standing in the door amazed. She rose from the chair with a cry and covered her face with her hands.
“Go away. Go away out of my house forever,” she screamed. “I never want to see you again.” In her shame she drove him out with blasphemy and hatred, she pursued him down the corridor and hurled objects down the stairs. She gave her farmer orders that Uncle Pio was forbidden to come into the grounds. But he continued for a week trying to see her again. At last he went back to Lima; he filled in the time as best he could, but he longed to be by her as a boy of eighteen would long. At last he devised a stratagem and returned up into the hills to put it into effect.
One morning before dawn he arose and lay on the ground below her window. He imitated in the darkness the sound of weeping, and, as nearly as he could, of a young girl’s weeping. He continued in this for the whole quarter of an hour. He did not let his voice rise above that degree of loudness which Italian musicians would represent by the direction piano, but he frequently intermitted the sound trusting that if she were asleep it would insinuate itself into her mind as much by duration as by degree. The air was cool and agreeable. The first faint streak of sapphire was appearing behind the peaks, and in the east the star of morning was pulsating every moment with a more tender intention. A profound silence wrapped all the farm buildings, only an occasional breeze set all the grasses sighing. Suddenly a lamp was lit in her room and a moment later the shutter was thrown back and a head wrapped in veils leaned far out.
“Who is there?” asked the beautiful voice.
Uncle Pio remained silent.
Camila said again in a tone edged with impatience: “Who is there? Who is there weeping?”
“Doña Micaela, my lady, I beg of you to come here to me.”
“Who are you and what do you want?”
“I am a poor girl. I am Estrella. I beg of you to come and help me. Do not call your maid. I pray you, Doña Micaela, to come yourself.”
Camila was silent a moment, then said abruptly: “Very well,” and closed the shutter. Presently she appeared around the corner of the house. She wore a thick cloak that dragged in the dew. She stood at a distance and said: “Come over here to where I am standing. Who are you?”
Uncle Pio rose up. “Camila, it is I—Uncle Pio. Forgive me, but I must speak to you.”
“Mother of God, when shall I be free of this dreadful person! Understand: I want to see no one. I don’t want to speak to a soul. My life is over. That is all.”
“Camila, by our long life together, I beg of you to grant me one thing. I shall go away and never trouble you again.”
“I grant you nothing, nothing. Stay away from me.”
“I promise you I shall never trouble you again if you listen to me this once.” She was hurrying around to the door on the other side of the house, and Uncle Pio was obliged to run beside her to make sure that she heard what he was saying. She stopped:
“What is it then? Hurry. It is cold. I am not well. I must go back to my room.”
“Camila, let me take Don Jaime for a year to live with me in Lima. Let me be his teacher. Let me teach him the Castilian. Here he is left among the servants. He is learning nothing.”
“No.”
“Camila, what will become of him? He has a good mind and he wants to learn.”
“He is sick. He is delicate. Your house is a sty. Only the country is good for him.”
“But he has been much better these last few months. I promise you I shall clean out my house. I shall apply to Madre María del Pilar for a housekeeper. Here he is in your stables all day. I shall teach him all that a gentleman should know—fencing and Latin and music. We shall read all …”
“A mother cannot be separated from her child like that. It is impossible. You are crazy to have thought of it. Give up thinking of me and of everything about me. I no longer exist. I and my children will get on as best we can. Do not try to disturb me again. I do not want to see any human being.”
Now it was that Uncle Pio felt obliged to use a hard measure. “Then pay me the money that you owe me,” he said.
Camila stood still, confounded. To herself she said: “Life is too fearful to bear. When may I die?” After a moment she answered him, in a hoarse voice: “I have very little money. I will pay you what I can. I will pay you now. I have a few jewels here. Then we need never see one another again.” She
