María, to whom my back was turned, put down the cup and saucer upon the table within my father’s reach. As she did it she was full in the light. Her face was almost livid. As she took the teapot from Estefana, she had to steady herself by my chair. My father held out his cup for her to fill, but when he saw that her hand trembled so that she was in danger of spilling the tea, looked at her, and said, “That will do—that will do, daughter.”
The cause of her agitation was evident to him. He watched María as she slowly walked towards the dining-room, and then, turning to my mother, asked her, “Do you see that?”
We all remained silent. After a little, I went out under the pretext of carrying the writing materials to the study.
XXXVII
At eight the bell rang for dinner; but I felt that I could not yet control myself in María’s presence. My mother knocked at my door.
“Is it possible,” she said, when she had entered, “that you are going to allow yourself to be mastered by this sorrow? Can’t you show yourself as strong as at other times? You must do it, not only because your father will be offended, but also because you are the one who ought to give María courage.”
As she said this her voice had a tone of mingled reproach and tenderness. She went on to speak of all the advantages that journey would bring me, though she did not try to hide the grief of separation I should have to endure. Finally she said: “During these four years, I shall look upon María not only as a beloved daughter, but also as the woman destined to make you happy, and well deserving your love. I shall talk to her of you constantly, and shall try to make her think of your return as a reward of your obedience and hers.”
I lifted my head, and our eyes sought each other, and promised what our lips could not utter.
“Go to the dining-room, then,” she said, before leaving, “and conceal your feelings as much as you can. Your father and I have been talking about you a great deal, and it is quite possible that something may be devised to give you great comfort.”
Only Emma and María were in the dining-room. Whenever my father was away, I sat at the head of the table. Seated on opposite sides, the two were waiting for me. Some time passed without our speaking. Both their faces expressed great dejection, but my sister’s was not so pale, and her glance had not the brilliant languor of beautiful eyes that have been weeping. It was she who said to me:
“Have you concluded to go to the farm tomorrow?”
“Yes, but I shall not be there more than two days.”
“You must take Juan Ángel, so that he can see his mother. Perhaps she is worse.”
“I expect to take him. Higinio writes that Feliciana is worse, and that Doctor Mayn, who has been prescribing for her, has had to go away to Cali in response to an urgent summons.”
“Give Feliciana affectionate messages from us,” said María. “If she continues sick, we will ask mamma to take us to see her.”
Emma broke the silence which followed, by saying to me: “Tránsito, Lucía, and Braulio were here this afternoon, and were very sorry not to see you. We had thought we would go to see them next Sunday. They have been so kind during papa’s illness!”
“Let us go Monday; I will be here by that time.”
“If you had seen how sorry they were when I told them of your voyage to Europe!”
Estefana came in to say that my mother wanted María. I walked up and down in the dining-room, hoping to be able to speak to her before going to bed.
The night continued calm. The rosebushes were motionless. Not a rustle could be detected in the tops of the trees. Only the sighs of the river disturbed the impressive silence. Against the dark-blue mantle of the mountains, some scattered clouds were whitening, like scarfs of snowy gauze made to ripple by the wind over the blue skirt of an odalisque. The transparent circle of the sky arched itself above the numberless peaks, like a vase of blue-tinted glass incrusted with diamonds.
María still delayed. My mother came to ask me to come into the parlor. My father was seated on a sofa, María at his side. She did not lift her eyes to look at me. He pointed me to a seat near hers.
“Well, my daughter,” he said to María, “do you want me to repeat the question I asked you when your mamma went out, so that you may reply to it in Efraín’s presence?”
My father smiled, and she slowly shook her head.
“How shall we do it, then?” he urged.
María ventured to glance at me, and that look revealed everything to me.
“Isn’t it true,” my father asked her again, “that you promise Efraín to be his wife when he returns from Europe?”
After several moments of silence, she sought my eyes again. Then she hid from me her downcast face, as she replied, “If he wants me to be.”
“Don’t you know that he wants it?” said my father, almost laughing.
María blushed and was silent. The color did not leave her cheeks all that evening.
“You know that I want you to be my wife, don’t you?” I said to her.
“Yes, I know it,” she replied, in a faint voice.
“Now tell Efraín,” said my father to her, quite gravely now, “the conditions upon which you and I make him this promise.”
“On
