“Go on.”
“We opened the door, and we saw sitting upon one of the shutters which the wind was shaking, a black bird about the size of a very large dove. It uttered a cry such as I had never heard. It seemed to be dazzled by the light I held, and put it out as it flew over our heads just as we were running away in fright. That night I dreamed—but what makes you look like that?”
“Like what?” I said, trying to conceal the impression made upon me by her story. What she told me, had taken place at the very hour when my father and I were reading that wretched letter; and that black bird was the same that had brushed my face during the storm, the night that María suffered a return of her attack—the same that had startled me several times at sunset by sweeping above my head.
“Like what?” replied María. “I see I did wrong to tell you this.”
“Can you imagine that?”
“It is not imagination.”
“What did you dream?”
“I must not tell you.”
“Not even after a while?”
“Alas! never, perhaps.”
Emma was just opening the door into the courtyard.
“Wait for us,” called María; “do, we are truly coming this time.”
We joined her, and they two walked hand in hand the rest of the way. I felt myself mastered by a vague dread; I was afraid of something, though I could not divine what. But I remembered my father’s injunction, and endeavored to control myself.
XXXIV
The next day, the 12th of December, was to be Tránsito’s wedding-day. After our return, word was sent to José that we would be in the parish church between seven and eight. It had been decided that my mother, María, Felipe, and I should go, as my sister was to stay to get ready all sorts of presents, which were to be sent very early to the mountain, so that the bridal couple should find them on their return.
That night, after supper, my sister was playing the guitar, seated on a sofa in the corridor outside of my room, and María and I were talking as we leaned over the railing.
“Something,” she was saying, “something troubles you, and I cannot guess what.”
“But what can it be? Don’t you see me happy? Am I not as you hoped I would be when I returned to you?”
“No; you have tried to appear so, but I have discovered something new in you—you are dissembling.”
“What, with you?”
“Yes.”
“You are right; I am compelled to live feigning.”
“No, Señor. I do not mean that, but tonight.”
“For four months I have been deceiving …”
“Me also? Me? Could you deceive me?”
She tried to look into my eyes, to see if what she feared were true; but as I laughed at her earnestness, she said, as if ashamed of it, “Explain that to me.”
“There isn’t any explanation.”
“For God’s sake—for the sake of what you most love, explain it to me.”
“It is all true.”
“It can’t be.”
“But let me finish. To take revenge for what you were just thinking, I will not tell you unless you ask me for the sake of what you know I most love.”
“I do not know what it is.”
“Well, then, convince yourself that I have deceived you.”
“No, no; I was going to tell you. But how can I tell you?”
“Think.”
She paused a moment, and then said, “I have thought now.”
“Tell me, then.”
“For the sake of what you love most, next to God and your—I hope it is I.”
“No, it won’t do that way.”
“Why, how then? I am afraid that what you say is true.”
“Say it another way.”
“I will try; but if you don’t like it this time …”
“What then?”
“Nothing; please don’t look at me.”
“I’m not.”
Then she succeeded in saying, in a very low voice, “For the sake of María, who loves you …”
“So much!” I finished, taking her hands in mine.
“Now tell me,” she urged.
“I have been deceiving you, because I have not dared to confess to you how much I really love you.”
“Why haven’t you told me?”
“Because I was afraid.”
“Afraid of what?”
“Of finding that you love me less than I do you.”
“Afraid of that? Then you were the one to be deceived.”
“If I had told you …”
“And do not the eyes say things against one’s will?”
“Do you think so?”
“I do, because yours have shown it to me. Now tell me the reason you have been so strange tonight. Have you seen the doctor recently?”
“Yes.”
“What did he say about me?”
“The same thing as before; that you would not be sick again. Don’t talk about that.”
“Only one word. What else did he say? He thinks my disease is the same as my mother’s … perhaps he is right.”
“Oh no! he never said that. And aren’t you, then, perfectly well now?”
“Yes; still, in spite of that, many times, oh, many times I have thought about that sickness with dread. But I believe that God has heard me; I have prayed to him so earnestly that it should not come back.”
“Perhaps not so earnestly as I have.”
“Pray for it always.”
“Always, María. Listen. It is true that there is a reason for my being disturbed tonight; but you see that you have made me forget it.”
I told her of the news we had received two days before.
“Oh, that black bird!” she said, as soon as I ended; and she looked towards my room in terror.
“How can you be so much troubled by a mere coincidence?”
“What I dreamed that night is what troubles me.”
“Do you still think you can’t tell me?”
“Not now; some time. Let us talk with Emma before you go. She is so good to us.”
In half an hour we separated, promising each other to get up very early to begin our ride to the parish
