“First finish milking the heifer,” I said, leaning my rifle against the palings; “but Lucía and I will do it alone, and that will make her think of me every morning.”
I took the large gourd, on the bottom of which snowy foam already lay, and holding it under Mariposa’s udder, at last succeeded in getting Lucía, in great embarrassment, to milk it full. While she was doing this, I said to her, under the cow: “José’s nephews are not all gone yet, I know that Braulio has a brother, a finer fellow than he is, even, and that he has loved you ever since you were no bigger than a doll.”
“No such thing,” she broke in.
“Oh yes, he has. I am going to tell Señora Luisa that she must have her husband bring his nephew to help you. And then, when I come back, you won’t be blushing at everything.”
She laughed, and stopped milking.
“Aren’t you going to finish?”
“But how can I, when you are so troublesome? There, there isn’t any more.”
“Why, there are two full teats. Milk them.”
“No, they are for the calf.”
“Well, shall I tell Luisa?”
She left off biting her lip, and made a gesture which meant, “Do what you like.”
The calf was in a desperate state till they took off his muzzle, and then was at the cow’s flanks in an instant. As Lucía saw him pushing at the udder, she said, “That is what you wanted—you great-headed, particular thing!”
Then she went into the house, carrying the gourd on her head, and looking at me askance in the most piquant way.
I drove away a family of geese from the bank of the brook, where they were dreaming on the turf, and set about making my morning toilet. I conversed meanwhile with Braulio and Tránsito, who held my coat and vest.
“Lucía!” called Tránsito, “bring the embroidered towel—the one in the little painted box.”
“You need not think she will come,” I said; and I told them of what I had said to Lucía.
They laughed as Lucía came running out with the towel, in spite of our thinking she would not. She guessed what had passed, and that we were laughing at her. She handed me the towel, turning her face away so that I should not see it. Then she said to Tránsito, “Come and look after your coffee, or it will burn, and don’t stand there giggling.”
“Is it all ready?” asked Tránsito.
“Hours ago!”
“What is this about the coffee?” I asked.
“Why, I asked the Señorita, the last time I was there, to show me how to make it, for I thought you didn’t like our chocolate. That’s the reason you found us in such a hurry with the milking.”
In the house, simplicity, cleanliness, and good order were on every hand. Everything smelled of cedar—the wood of which the homely furniture was made. Señora Luisa had adorned her daughter’s cabin with bunches of pinks and narcissuses. By the door hung deer-heads, and deer-feet served for clothes-hooks in the sitting-room and bedroom.
Tránsito, half proud and half afraid, offered me a cup of coffee, the first trial after María’s lessons. It was a most successful trial, for as soon as I tasted the coffee I saw that it rivaled that so skilfully prepared by Juan Ángel.
Braulio and I went to summon José and Señora Luisa to breakfast. We all breakfasted together in the kitchen, Tránsito, alert and smiling, playing her part as mistress of the house. Lucía threatened me with her eyes every time I let her see me looking at her father. With instinctive delicacy, these country-people made no allusion to my journey, as if not wishing to embitter those last hours together.
It was eleven o’clock. José, Braulio, and I had visited the new banana-orchard, the clearing he was making, and the tasseled cornfield; when all were together in the house again, we remained silent. There must have been something in my face which affected them, since they averted their gaze. At last, with an effort, I rose. I took my rifle, and hung it on one of the hooks in the little room. I said to Braulio, “Whenever you make a good shot with that, think of me.”
The mountaineer could not find words to thank me.
Señora Luisa, still seated, made no attempt to conceal her tears. Tránsito and Lucía, standing on either side of the door, turned their backs to me. Braulio was pale. José pretended to be looking for something in the corner where the tools were.
“Well, Señora Luisa,” I said, leaning forward to embrace her, “goodbye. Pray for me a great deal.”
She sobbed without answering.
At the threshold I caught the heads of both the girls to my breast in a single embrace. They were sobbing, and their hair was wet with tears of my own. Braulio and José were waiting for me outside.
“I am coming tomorrow,” said José, taking my hand.
We both knew very well that he would not come. As soon as I had loosed myself from Braulio’s arms his uncle caught me in his; then, wiping his eyes on his shirtsleeve, he took the path for the clearing. At the same time, I started off in the opposite direction, followed by Mayo, having signed to Braulio not to go with me.
XLVI
I went down slowly towards the bottom of the mountain gorge. Only the distant cry of the gurríes and the murmur of the river disturbed the silence of the woods. My heart was saying farewell to each spot—to each tree by the path, to each brook I crossed.
Seated on the river’s bank, I
