“Suppose he doesn’t?”
“Are you afraid he won’t?”
“Yes.”
“What shall we do, in that case?”
“You will obey him.”
“And you?”
“Alas! I do not know.”
“You must believe that he will accept, María.”
“No, no; for if I am mistaken, I know that it will do me great harm. But you do it the way I say; it may be, in that way, all will turn out well.”
XXXV
As we reached home, I was astonished to see the shutters closed in the windows of my mother’s room. Eloisa ran out to us making signs that we should be quiet.
“Papa,” she said, “has gone to lie down because he is not feeling well.”
Only María and I could give the cause, and our glances met. She and my mother went in instantly, and I followed them. As my father understood that we would be anxious, he said to us in a voice which was unsteady from his chill: “It is nothing. Perhaps, when I got up, I was careless, and took cold.”
His hands and feet were cold and his head hot. María and my mother at once put on their house dresses. Breakfast was served, but they did not attend. Emma came to me, as I rose from the table, to say that my father wanted me. His fever was increasing.
“Put out some of these lights,” he was saying, when I went into his room. There was but one, and that was on a table hidden from him by the curtains.
“Efraín is here now,” my mother said.
He did not seem to hear. After a moment, he said, as if talking to himself: “There is no remedy for this. Why does not Efraín come to finish it all up at once?”
I made him see that I was there.
“Well,” he went on, “bring them to me to sign.”
My mother leaned her head upon her hand. María and Emma looked at me to see if there really were letters.
“As soon as you are more rested we will attend to everything.”
“Oh, that man, that man!” he murmured, and then sank into a sort of stupor.
My mother called me to the parlor, and said: “It seems to me we ought to call the doctor. What do you think?”
“I think so, too; for even if the fever leaves him, nothing will be lost by having Mayn come, and if …”
“No, no,” she interrupted. “When a sickness begins like this it is always serious.”
As soon as I had sent off a servant after the doctor, I returned to my father’s side; he was calling for me again.
“When did they come back?” he asked.
“More than an hour ago.”
“Where is your mother?”
“I will go and call her.”
“Don’t let her know anything of this.”
“No, Señor; have no care.”
“Did you add that postscript to the letter?”
“Yes, Señor.”
“Did you get out of the closet that correspondence and the receipt?”
He was possessed with the idea of making up the loss he had suffered.
The doctor came at four. The fever had not yielded, and the sick man kept on alternating between delirium and stupor. None of the household remedies had been of any avail. The doctor ordered a bath prepared, and got everything ready for cupping; then he went with me to my room. While he was compounding a draught, I tried to find out what he thought about the sickness.
“It is probably a brain-fever,” he said.
“Do you think it a severe case?”
“These fevers always begin this way, but if they are attacked in time we can often conquer them. Has your father been working hard recently?”
“Yes, Señor; we were down at the lower farms till yesterday, and had a great deal to do.”
“Has he had anything to vex him, any serious disappointment?”
“I believe I ought to speak with you frankly. Three days ago, he had news that an investment of great importance had been lost.”
“And did it affect him greatly? Excuse me for speaking in this way; I think it is necessary. There are some diseases that spring from the mind, and disguise themselves under the symptoms of others.”
“You may be almost certain that this misfortune of which I have spoken has been the principal cause of his sickness. But I must tell you that my mother knows nothing of what has happened, as my father did not want her to be troubled by it.”
“That is well. You have done right to speak to me of this. Be sure that I shall make a prudent use of the secret.”
The doctor watched till two in the morning. The fever had not abated a particle. Mayn went to lie down, begging us to call him if we noticed any alarming symptoms.
My mother rested in an armchair near the head of the bed; from her moving lips, and her gaze directed towards an Ecce Homo on the door, it was clear that she was praying. Already, from words of my father in his delirium, she had divined all that had occurred. At the foot of the bed, kneeling upon a sofa, and half hidden by the curtains, María was trying to warm the sick man’s feet; he had just complained anew of the cold. I went to her, and whispered, “Go and rest a little.”
“Why?” she replied, lifting her head—a head as beautiful in the negligence of watching as when freshly adorned in the morning for the ride.
“Because you will do yourself harm, watching all night.”
“You mustn’t think that. What time is it?”
“Nearly three.”
“I am not tired. It will be daylight soon. You go and sleep, and if it is necessary I will have you awakened.”
“How are his feet?”
“Alas! very cold.”
“Let me take your place a while, and then I will go and lie down.”
“Very well,” she replied, getting up carefully so as not to make the least noise.
“It is only for a moment,” she said, “till I go and see what Juan wants.”
The little fellow had waked, and was calling her. As the clock struck three, María returned
