“Afterwards, what?”
“I thought differently about it.”
“And that is what made you pass from sadness to joy?”
“Not exactly, but …”
“Well, to feel as you do today?”
“Didn’t I say so? I knew it would not please you to see me this way, and I don’t want you to think me capable of being merely silly.”
“You! Do you think I ever could?”
“Why not? I am only a girl like any other, and might not look on serious things as I ought to.”
“No, you would not do that.”
“Yes, Señor; yes, I would; at least, it will seem so, till I explain myself. But let us talk with mamma a little, lest she think it strange you talk so much with me; and meanwhile I will sec if I can tell you all.”
We did so. But, after a quarter of an hour, our horses were again side by side. We were coming out once more into the open country, and could see the white spire of the parish church, and the red roofs of the houses, in the midst of the foliage of the gardens.
“Tell me, María,” I said then.
“There! you see that you yourself want to clear it up. But suppose the reason I am going to give you is not a good one? It would have been better not to be happy; but as you have not chosen to teach me to dissemble—”
“How teach you what I do not know?”
“What a fine memory! Have you forgotten what you said to me last night? I am going to take advantage of that lesson.”
“From today on?”
“Not after this,” she replied, smiling at the very air of gravity which she tried to put on. “Listen, then. I could not help being happy today, because as soon as I left you last night I thought that out of this loss of papa’s might come—but what would he think of me if he knew this?”
“Explain yourself, and I will tell you what he would think.”
“If this sum he has lost is so large,” she said to me then, combing the mane of her horse with her whip-handle, “papa will have more need of you—he will consent to have you assist him now—”
“Yes, yes,” I responded, mastered by the timid and anxious glance she gave me, at this confession of what she so much feared would make her appear at fault.
“Do you really think it may be so?”
“I will relieve my father of the promise to send me to Europe to complete my studies; I will agree to struggle at his side till the end to save his credit; and he will consent—he must consent! In that way we shall never separate, you and I—never separate. And then, very soon …”
Without lifting her eyes, she assented; and her blush, beneath the veil with which the breeze kept playing, was angelic.
When we reached the village, Braulio came to greet us, and to say that the priest was awaiting us. The venerable man, in fact, when he saw us approaching his house at the side of the church, came out to meet us, and invited us to breakfast with him; but we excused ourselves as politely as possible.
As the ceremony began, Braulio’s face proclaimed his happiness. Tránsito looked persistently at the floor, and made her answers in an unnatural voice. José, standing beside the priest, held a candle in his unsteady grasp; and his eyes, which passed continually from the face of the priest to that of his daughter, if they were hot actually full of tears, showed that they had been.
As the minister blessed the joined hands of the pair, Tránsito ventured to look at her husband; in that look, love, humility, and goodness were mingled; it was the only promise she could make the man she loved, after the one she had just made in the presence of God.
We all heard mass, and as we left the church, Braulio told us that while we were mounting they would set out from the village; but that we should overtake them not very far away. In half an hour we came up with the pretty pair and José, who was leading on ahead the old gray mule on which he had brought down the presents for the priest, vegetables for the market, and the holiday finery of the young people. We slowed down our pace to theirs for a little while. Tránsito walked by María’s side; she spoke little, but in her bearing and face there was an indescribable union of modesty, gratitude, and unaffected joy.
As we took leave of them, promising to come to their house that afternoon, Tránsito smiled on María in an almost sisterly way; the latter took the hand timidly offered her by her goddaughter, and said, “I am sorry to think of your going all the way on foot.”
“Why, Señorita?”
“Señorita?”
“Madrina, then?”
“Yes, yes.”
“Thanks. We shall go slowly, shan’t we?” she said, addressing the mountaineers.
“Yes,” answered Braulio; “and if you are not ashamed to lean on me going up the steep places, you will get through without being tired.”
My mother insisted that José should bring all the family to dine with us the next day, and he had to promise that he would try to do it. On our way home the talk was general, as María and I tried to make it for the sake of my mother, who was complaining of fatigue, as she always did when riding. But just as we were reaching the house, Marfa said to me in a voice which I alone could hear, “Are you going to speak of that to papa today?”
“Yes.”
“Don’t do it today.”
“Why not?”
“Because.”
“When do you want me to do it?”
“If within a week he says nothing to you about the journey, then seek an opportunity for telling him. And do you know what one would be the best. Some day after you have worked together a great deal; I am sure he will then be much pleased with your offer of aid.”
“But in
