“She read them in a newspaper,” I hastily put in. “It’s wretched stuff,” I added. “The newspapers publish so many atrocities of that kind! The verses are by a poet of Havana, and you know that in Cuba nature is very much like what it is in Cauca.”
María, my mother, and my sister looked at each other in surprise at the cool way in which I deceived Carlos; but they knew nothing of the examination of my books made by him in the afternoon, or of the slight respect he had shown my favorite authors. I recalled with a sort of spite what he had said about Quixote, and continued: “You must have seen that poem in The Day and have forgotten it. I think it was signed Almendárez.”
“It’s very likely so,” he said; “I have such a poor memory. If they are the verses I have heard my cousin recite, I must say they please me better as sung by the young ladies. Won’t you have the goodness to repeat them?” he added, addressing María.
She smiled, and asked Emma: “How does the first stanza begin? I’m afraid I’ve forgotten them. You recite them, you know them so well.”
“But you have just sung them,” remarked Carlos, “and it must be easier to recite them. Bad as they may be, they would seem excellent in your mouth.”
María repeated them, though when she came to the last couplet her voice was rather tremulous.
Carlos thanked her, and added, “Now I am almost sure I have heard them before.”
Come, said I to myself; what Carlos is certain of is having seen all his life what these verses describe, but without reflecting on it.
XXIII
Bedtime came, and I sought my room, hoping that a bed had not been placed there for Carlos, too. My mother and María were just coming out.
“I can sleep here alone, can’t I?” I asked the former.
She understood the reason of my question, and replied, “No, your friend.”
“Ah yes, the flowers,” said I, seeing María carrying in a handkerchief the ones she had put in my vase that morning; “where are you taking them?”
“To the oratory; for, as there has not been time to arrange others there …”
I was extremely grateful to her for her delicacy in not allowing the flowers she had destined for me to remain for the enjoyment of another. But she had left the cluster of lilies which I had brought from the mountains that afternoon, although it was in plain sight upon the table. Observing that, I gave them to her, saying: “Carry these lilies also to the altar; Tránsito sent them to you by me, asking me to tell you that she had chosen you for a bridesmaid. And, as we all ought to pray for her happiness.”
“Yes, yes,” she answered; then she turned to my mother, and added, “So she wants me to be her bridesmaid.”
“Nothing more natural,” was the reply.
“Oh, I have a beautiful dress for the occasion! You must tell her that I am very happy that she has chosen us—has chosen me as her bridesmaid.”
My brothers, Felipe and the next younger, were surprised and delighted to learn that I was to sleep in their room. They slept together so that I might have Felipe’s bed; in its curtains María had hung the medallion of the Mater Dolorosa which used to be on the hangings of my own bed.
As soon as the boys had repeated their prayers, kneeling down by the bed, they said good night, and fell asleep after laughing at the fear they were both thrown into by the jaguar’s head.
That night the image of María was not the only thing with me; the pets of the house slept near my bed; at sunrise she would come to get them, would give them a morning kiss, and take them to the fountain, where she would wash their faces with hands as white and fragrant as the Castile roses which they used to pick for the altar and for her.
XIV
I was awakened in the morning by the whispering of the children, who in vain tried to respect my sleep. The doves which had been recently caught, and, with clipped wings, kept in empty boxes, cooed as they caught sight of the first rays of light penetrating through the cracks of their prison.
“Don’t open the door,” said Felipe; “don’t open it, for brother is asleep, and …”
“But María has already called us,” replied the little fellow.
“No, she hasn’t; I’ve been awake a good while, and she hasn’t called.”
“Yes, she has. I know what you want—to run down to the ravine ahead of me and then say that all the blackfish are on your hooks.”
“Well, as I had all the work of setting them properly …” Felipe broke in.
“What talk! Why, it is Juan Ángel who sets them for you in the good places.”
He persisted in opening the door.
“Don’t open it,” said Felipe, somewhat put out. “Wait and I’ll see if Efraín is asleep.”
Saying this, he came on tiptoe towards my bed. I seized him by the arm, and said, “So, you rascal, you take away his fish, do you?”
Both laughed, and came forward to make their defence. All was settled by my promise to go out in the afternoon and witness the setting of the hooks. I rose, and leaving them busy in shutting up the doves, which were flying about and trying to get out under the door, crossed the garden. The orange-blossoms, sweet basil, and roses were giving to the breeze their most delicate odors, as they received the caress of the first rays of the sun, now appearing above the crest of Morrillos, and touching with rose and gold the light clouds far up by the zenith.
Don Jerónimo and Carlos were walking in the corridor by their rooms, and talking together, when I leaped over the garden wall so as to reach the outer court.
“Aha!” said Señor M⸺, “you’ve up
