It was not yet five, when, after taking pains to conceal the traces of my sleeplessness, I began walking in the dim corridor. Very soon I saw the gleam of a light in María’s room, and heard Juan’s voice calling her.
The first rays of the rising sun vainly tried to break through the thick fog which hung like a great veil from the mountain peaks, and floated far out on the distant plains. The western summits were clear and blue; against them the churches of Cali showed golden, while, farther down, the little villages of Yumbo and Vijes whitened against the slopes like flocks of sheep.
Juan Ángel brought me my coffee, and saddled my black horse. The impatient animal was pawing up the grass under the orange-tree where he was tied. Then the faithful servant waited for me, leaning against the door of my room, holding my spurs in his hand, and having my leggings over his arms; as he put them on me, his tears fell in great drops on my feet.
“Don’t cry.” I said to him. “When I come back, you will be a man, and will never be separated from me again. In the meantime, all the family will think a great deal of you.”
The moment had come for me to summon all my strength. My spurs rang on the parlor floor—the room was empty. The door of my mother’s sewing-room was ajar. I pushed it open; she threw herself into my arms. Knowing that the expression of her sorrow might weaken my courage, between her sobs she tried to speak to me of María, and to make me affectionate promises.
All had taken a tearful farewell. Emma, who was the last of all, perceiving that I looked about as I released myself from her embrace, pointed me to the door of the oratory. I passed through it. The yellow gleam of two candles was irradiating the altar. María was seated upon the rug, over which flowed her white dress. She gave a faint cry as she perceived me, and then let her head fall again upon the chair where she was leaning it when I entered. Hiding her face from me in that way, she held out her hand to me. Half kneeling, I bathed it in tears and covered it with caresses. As I rose, she suddenly leaped up, as if in fear that I was already going, and hung sobbing upon my neck. Until then my heart had scarcely known what sorrow was.
My lips rested upon her forehead. Startled, María drew back her head. Then, hiding her face on my breast, she stretched out her arm and pointed me to the altar. Emma came in, and caught her, fainting. She made a beseeching gesture, meaning that I was to go. I obeyed.
XLVIII
I had been two weeks in London, when one night I received letters from home. With trembling hand I opened the package. There was a letter from María. Before unfolding it, I sought for traces of her perfume in it. They were there; and a bit of the calyx of a lily was folded in. My eyes were filled with mist, so that I could not read the first lines. I opened a window, as it seemed to me that I could not breathe the air in the room. Oh for the roses of the beloved garden! for my mountains! and the clear, starlit nights! The great city, still murmurous, and half cloaked in fog, seemed to be sleeping under the thick curtains of a leaden sky. A chill wind beat against my face. I closed the shutters, and was alone with my grief. Here are some parts of María’s letter:
“While they are still sitting at the table, I have come to your room to write to you. Here I can imagine that I am seeing you and talking with you. Everything is just as you left it. The last flowers which I put on your table have been falling withered to the bottom of the vase, until now not one is left. The chairs are in the same places. The books are as they were—the last one you were reading is open on the table. Your hunting suit is where you hung it when you came from the mountain the last time. The calendar on the shelf still reads the 30th of January, that dreaded and dreadful day, now past! Even at this moment the roses at your window thrust in their branches to look for you. They quiver as I touch them, and tell them that you will return.
“Where are you? What are you doing now? It is all in vain that I asked you so many times to show me on the map where you were going, for I cannot imagine it at all. I am afraid as I think of you on that ocean, in the midst of which I see you all the time. But after you reach London, you will tell me everything. You will tell me of the landscape about the house where you live. You will describe to me all the particulars of your rooms—your furniture and ornaments. You will tell me what you do each day—when you study, when you rest, when you exercise, and when you think of your María. Tell me again what hours here correspond to those there, for I have forgotten.
“Not even Mayo forgets you. The day after you went away, he ran all over the house and garden looking for you. He went on the mountain in search of you, and
