José led me to the river, and talked to me about his crops and his hunting while I was taking a plunge in the transparent pool whence the stream fell over a small cascade. On our return we found a tempting breakfast served upon the only table in the house. Maize appeared in many forms—in porridge served on plates of glazed clay, and in golden griddlecakes. The only knife and fork of the establishment were crossed upon my plate, which was white, with a blue border.
Mayo sat at my feet with an attentive gaze, though more subdued than usual. José was mending a fishnet, while his daughters, attentive though embarrassed, were carefully serving me, trying to guess from my eyes what I needed. They had grown very fine-looking, and from talkative children had changed into capable women. After I had finished the cup of thick creamy milk, the dessert of that patriarchal breakfast, José and I went out to walk about the garden and the clearing which he was making. He was astonished at my book-knowledge of seeds; and after an hour’s talk we went back to the house, I to take my leave of the girls and their mother.
I placed in the good old man’s belt the cutlass which I had brought for him; gave pretty rosaries to Tránsito and Lucía; and left in the hands of Luisa the reliquary which she had asked my mother to get for her. I then started down the mountain; it was precisely noon, so José said as he studied the sun.
X
As I was slowly returning, the image of María again came into my mind. Those lonely spots—the silent forests, the flowers, birds, brooks—why did they remind me of her? What suggestion of María was there in the misty shadows, in the breeze stirring among the leaves, in the echo of the river? It was a very Eden; but she was lacking. I could not cease to love her, even if she did not love me. I drank in the perfume of the cluster of wild lilies which José’s daughters had plucked for me, and thought that perhaps they might come to be touched by María’s lips—so weak had become my heroic resolves of the night before.
As soon as I reached the house I went to my mother’s sewing-room; María was there. She gave me a greeting, but then dropped her eyes to her sewing. My mother was delighted to see me come in, for she had been anxious at my being so long away, and had just sent someone to look for me. I talked to them about José’s improvements, while Mayo was licking off the burrs that had stuck to my clothes.
María looked up again, and glanced at the cluster of lilies which I held in my left hand, leaning with my right on my rifle. I thought that she wanted them; but a strange fear, a regard for my mother and for my resolves of the past night, kept me offering them to her. But I pleased myself imagining how beautiful she would look with one of my small lilies in her shining hair. They ought to be hers, because she must have filled up my vase during the morning with orange-flowers and violets.
When I went to my room, not a single flower was there. If I had found a viper coiled up on my table it would not have caused me so great a shock. The fragrance of María’s flowers had come to stand with me for something of her own spirit, floating about near me in my hours of study and of sleep. It was true, then; she did not love me! My dreamy imagination had been deceiving me. And this cluster of lilies which I had brought for her—what should I do with it now? If another woman had been there then, in that moment of wounded pride, of anger with María, I would have given them to her, for her to show to everybody. I put them to my lips, as if for a last farewell to a cherished delusion, and flung them out of the window.
XI
I was unnaturally gay the rest of the day. At the table I talked enthusiastically of the beautiful women of Bogotá, and especially recounted the graces and wit of P⸺. My father seemed pleased to hear me; Eloisa would have liked to have me keep on till night. María said nothing, though I thought she was unusually pale. She kept on playing with Juan, and finally went out into the garden with the boy.
All the rest of the afternoon, and in the early evening, I had to help my father with his writing. At eight we were called to the dining-room. As we sat down, I was astonished to see one of the lilies in María’s hair. There was on her lovely face such an air of noble goodness and sweet submissiveness that I felt as if magnetized by something in her that I had not known before, and could not leave off gazing at her. An affectionate and happy child, a woman as pure and charming as a dream—as such I had known her; but for her to be gentle and resigned before my angry pride—that was new to me. I felt unworthy so much as to look at her.
I replied confusedly to questions which they asked me about José and his family. I could not conceal my perturbation from my father; but he turned to María, and said, with a smile, “That’s a lovely lily you have in your hair; I do not remember any of that
