Three hours had passed. As my father went to bed he said to me, “We must conceal from your mother, as far as possible, what has happened; and we shall also have to delay our return for another day.”
Although I had always heard him say that his peaceful sleep brought him relief in all the disasters of life, I saw—when, shortly after he had spoken to me, I was convinced that he was asleep—such intrepid resignation in his slumber, such courage in his quiet, that I could only stand and look at him for a long time.
It was not yet dawn when I had to go out in search of better air to calm the sort of fever which had troubled me during that sleepless night. Only the song of the titiribí and the guacharacas of the neighboring woods heralded the morning; nature appeared to be lazily waking from sleep. At the first light of day asomas and azulejos began to flutter about in the banana-trees and in the groves; pairs of doves took up their flight towards neighboring fields; the chattering of flocks of parrots mingled with the noise of a clamorous brook; and from the blossom-laden summits of the cacao-trees, the herons rose in slow and easy flight.
Never again shall I admire those songs, drink in those perfumes, or gaze upon those landscapes flooded with light. Today strangers dwell in my father’s house.
The afternoon was nearly gone when, the next day, my father and I were riding up the long green mountain-slope to our house. The drove of horses that were pasturing near the path gave way to us, snorting in their fright, and the pellares rose from the edges of the streams to threaten us with their cries and circling flight.
We could see the eastern corridor, and the family awaiting us there; and again my father charged me to conceal the cause of our delay, and to try to appear unconcerned.
XXXIII
Not all those expecting us were in the corridor. María was standing a few rods from the courtyard gate, upon one of the large rocks to our left which commanded the valley. Emma was urging her to come down. We drew near them. María’s hair, flowing in long and shining curls, showed black against her green muslin dress; she sat down to keep the wind from blowing out her skirts, saying to my sister, who was laughing at her anxiety, “Don’t you see that I can’t do it?”
“Child,” said my father, halfway between alarm and laughter; “how did you ever get up there?”
She was ashamed of her exploit, and answered, “We were all alone …”
“That is to say,” interrupted my father, “that we ought to ride on so that you can come down. How did Emma get down?”
“The idea!—I helped her.”
“It was because I was not afraid,” said Emma.
“Come on, then,” concluded my father, addressing me; “but have a care.”
He knew perfectly well that I would stay. María had just said to me with her eyes, “Don’t go.” My father got on his horse again, and rode towards the house; I let my horse follow on alone.
“Here is where we got up,” said María, pointing to some scratches and hollows in the rock.
She reached out her rather tremulous hand, and helped me up. I seated myself at her feet, and she said: “Don’t you see how hard it is? What will papa say! He must think we are crazy.”
I looked at her without replying. The light in her eyes, timid as they were before mine, and the slight pallor on her cheeks told me, as they so often had, that she was happy.
“I shall go on alone,” said Emma, for the second time, and moved away a few steps to make us believe she would do it.
“No, no, wait a moment,” said María, rising up.
Seeing that I did not stir, she asked me, “What is the matter?”
“We are very comfortable here.”
“Yes, but Emma wants to go, and mamma will be expecting you. Help me get down; I am not afraid now. Let me have your handkerchief.”
She twisted it up, adding, “You hold it this way, and when you can’t reach me with your hand, I will take hold of that.”
Her plan worked admirably, and once on the ground, she said, “How will you get down?”
I leaped from the lowest part of the rock to the turf, and offered her my arm to walk to the house.
“If I had not come, how would you have got down, madcap?”
“I should have got down alone; I was just going to, when you came. But I was afraid of falling, there was so much wind. We climbed up there yesterday, and I got down easily. Why were you so long delayed?”
“We had to wind up some important matters. What have you been doing all these days?”
“Wishing they would pass.”
“Is that all?”
“Oh, sewing—and thinking a great deal.”
“What about?”
“Many things—which one thinks of but does not mention.”
“Not even to me?”
“To you least of all.”
“Have your own way.”
“Because you know them already.”
“Haven’t you read anything?”
“No, it makes me sad to read alone, and I don’t like any more those stories ‘Evenings at the Villa,’ and ‘Afternoons at the Grange.’ I was going to read some more of Atala, but as you told me there is a passage in it not exactly—Emma!” she called, “why do you hurry on so fast?”
Emma looked around, smiled, and kept on.
“What were you doing night before last at ten?” I asked.
“Night before last? Ah, why do you ask me that?”
“I was then very unhappy, thinking of those things which one thinks of but does not mention.”
“No, no, you can mention them.”
“Tell me what you were doing, and then I’ll tell you.”
“I am afraid to.”
“Afraid?”
“Perhaps
