CHAPTER V
AN IDYL ON THE AZOTEA. [3]
On the morning after the dinner party, Aunt Isabel and Maria Clarawent to mass early: the former carefully carrying her glasses, so thatshe might be able to read "The Anchor of Salvation" during communion;the latter beautifully dressed, carrying her rosary of blue beadsas a bracelet. The priest had scarcely left the altar when, to thedisgust and surprise of her good aunt, who thought that her niece wasas pious and as fond of prayer as a nun, the young girl desired to gohome. After a great deal of grumbling, the old lady crossed herselfseveral times, and the two arose to leave. "Never mind," said Maria,to cut off the scolding, "the good God will pardon me. He ought tounderstand the heart of a girl better than you, Aunt Isabel."
After breakfast, Maria Clara occupied herself with some embroiderywhile her aunt bustled about with a duster removing the traces ofthe social event of the preceding evening. Captain Tiago was busyexamining some papers.
Every noise in the street and every passing carriage made the girltremble with anxiety and wish that she were again back in the conventamong her friends. There, she thought, she could see him withouttrembling and with perfect equanimity.
"I believe, Maria, that the doctor is right," said Captain Tiago. "Youought to go to the provinces. You are looking very pale and need achange of air. How does Malabon strike you, or San Diego?"
At the mere mention of the latter name, Maria Clara blushed and wasunable to speak.
"Now, you and Isabel go to the convent to get your things and saygood bye to your friends," continued the Captain, without raisinghis head. "You will not return there. And in four or five days, whenyour clothes are ready we shall go to Malabon. --Your godfather,by the way, is not in San Diego at present. The priest whom you sawhere last night, that young fellow, is now the priest in the town. Heis a saint."
"I think you will find San Diego better, cousin," said AuntIsabel. "Our house there is better than the one in Malabon, andbesides, it is nearly time for the fiesta to take place."
Maria Clara was about to embrace her aunt for these welcome words,but just then a carriage stopped in front of the house and the younggirl suddenly turned pale.
"That's so," said the Captain, and then, in a changed tone, exclaimed,"Don Crisostomo!"
Maria Clara let fall the work which she was holding in her hands. Anervous trembling passed over her. Then steps were heard on the stairsand presently a young, manly voice. And, as if this voice had somemagic power, the girl shook off her emotion, started to run, and hidherself in the oratory. Both father and aunt had to laugh at this,and even Ibarra heard the closing of the door behind her.
Pale and panting, the girl finally subdued her emotion and began tolisten. She could hear his voice, that voice which for so long a timeshe had heard only in her dreams. Beside herself with joy, she kissedthe nearest saint, which, by the way, happened to be San Antonio,the abbot. Happy saint! Whether alive or carved in wood, alwaystempted in the most charming manner! Becoming quite herself again,she looked about for some crack through which she might get a peepat the young man. Finally, when he came in range of the key-hole andshe again saw his fine features, her face beamed with smiles. In fact,the sight filled her with such joy that when her aunt came to call her,Maria Clara fell on the old lady's neck and kissed her repeatedly.
"You goose! What is the matter with you?" the old lady was finallyable to ask, after wiping away her tears.
Maria Clara, in her modesty, covered her face with her round arm.
"Come! Hurry up and get yourself ready!" said the old lady in anaffectionate tone. "While he is talking with your father about you----Come, do not waste time!"
The girl did not respond, but allowed herself to be picked up likea child and carried to her room.
Captain Tiago and Ibarra were talking earnestly when at last AuntIsabel appeared, half dragging her niece by the hand. At first thegirl looked in every direction but at the persons present. At last,however, her eyes met Ibarra's.
The conversation of the young lovers was at first confined to theusual trifling remarks, those pleasant little things which, like theboasts of European nations, are enjoyable and interesting to thosewho are concerned and understand them, but ridiculous to outsiders.
Finally, she, like all sisters of Cain, was moved by jealously andasked: "Have you always thought of me? Have you never forgottenme in your many travels among so many great cities and among suchbeautiful women?"
And he, a true brother of Cain, dodged the issue, and, being somethingof a diplomat, answered: "Could I forget you?" And then, gazing intoher deep, dark eyes, "Could I break a sacred vow? Do you remember thatstormy night when you, seeing me in tears beside my dead mother, cameto me and placed your hand--that hand which I have not touched forso long--upon my shoulder, and said: 'You have lost your mother,--Inever had one.' And then you wept with me. You loved my mother, andshe loved you as only a mother can love a daughter. It was rainingthen, you will remember, and the lightning flashed, but I seemedto hear music and to see a smile on the face of my dead mother.--O,if my parents were only living and could see you now!--That night Itook your hand and, joining it with my mother's, I swore always tolove you and make you happy, no matter what fate Heaven might havein store for me. I have never regretted that vow, and now renew it."
"Since the day that I bade you good-bye and entered the convent,"she answered, smiling, "I have always remembered you, and have neverforgotten you in spite of the commands of my confessor, who imposedsevere penances on me. I remembered the little games we used to playtogether and our little quarrels. When we were children you used tofind in the river the most beautiful shells for our games of siklotand the finest and most beautifully colored stones for our game ofsinkat. You were always very slow and stupid and lost, but you alwayspaid the forfeit, which I gave you with the palm of my hand. But Ialways tried to strike lightly, for I was sorry for you. You alwayscheated, even more than I, in the game of chouka and we generallyquarrelled over it. Do you remember that time when you really becameangry? Then you made me suffer, but when I found that I had no one toquarrel with, we made peace immediately. We were still children whenwe went with your mother one day to bathe in the stream under theshade of the reeds. Many flowers and plants grew on the bank of theriver, and you used to tell me their strange Latin and Spanish names,for you were then studying at the Athenaeum. I paid little attention,but amused myself by chasing butterflies and in trying to catch thelittle fish which slipped away from me so easily among the rocks andweeds of the shore. You suddenly disappeared from sight, but whenyou returned you brought a wreath of orange flowers and placed it onmy head. On our way home, as the sun was hot, I collected some sageleaves from the side of the road for you to put into your hat andthus prevent headache. Then you laughed, we made up, and came theremainder of the way home hand in hand."
Ibarra smiled as he listened attentively to every detail of thestory. Opening his pocket book, he took out a paper in which he hadwrapped some withered but fragrant sage leaves. "Your sage leaves,"said he in answer to her questioning glance. "The only thing you haveever given me."
She, in turn, drew a little, white satin bag from the bosom of herdress. "Stop!" she said, tapping his hand with her own. "You mustnot touch it; it is a letter of farewell."
"The one that I wrote you before leaving?"
"My dear sir, have you ever written any other?"
"And what did I say then?"
"Many falsehoods; excuses of a bad debtor," replied she, smilingand showing how agreeable these falsehoods had been to her. "But bequiet! I will read it to you, but I will omit your polite speechesout of consideration for your feelings."
Raising the paper to the height of her eyes, in order to conceal herface, she began. "'My----,' I shall not read you what follows that,for it is not true." She ran her eyes over some lines and began to readagain: "'My father wishes me to go away, in spite of my entreaties. Hesays that I am a man and must think of my future and my duty; that Imust l
earn how to live, which I cannot do in my own country, so that inthe future I may be of some use. He says that if I remain at his side,in his shadow, in this atmosphere of business, I will never learn howto look ahead, and that when he is gone, I shall be like the plantof which our poet Baltazar speaks--as it always lives in the water,it never learns how to endure a moment's heat.--He reproached mebecause I wept, and his reproach hurt me so that I confessed that Iloved you. My father stopped, thought a moment and, placing his handon my shoulder, said in a trembling voice: "Do you think that youalone know how to love, that your father does not love you, and thathis heart is not pained at being separated from you? It is a shorttime since your mother died, and I am already reaching that age whenthe help and counsel of youth are needed. And yet I consent to yourgoing, not even knowing that I shall ever see you again. The future isopening to you, but closing to me. Your loves are being born; mine aredying. Fire blazes in your blood, but cold is gradually finding itsway into mine. And yet you weep, and are not willing to sacrifice thepresent for a future useful to yourself and your country." The eyes ofmy father filled with tears and I fell upon my knees at his feet andembraced him. I asked his pardon and said that I was willing to go.'"
The emotion which Ibarra manifested put an end to the reading. Aspale as death, he arose and began to walk nervously from one side tothe other.
"What is the matter?" she asked.
"You have made me forget that I have duties to perform, and that Iought to leave immediately for my town. To-morrow is the fiesta inmemory of the dead."
Maria Clara stopped and silently fixed her large and dreamy eyes uponhim for some minutes. Then taking some flowers from a vase near by,she said with emotion: "Go! I do not wish to detain you. We shall seeeach other again in a few days. Place these flowers on the graves ofyour father and mother."
A few moments later, Ibarra descended the stairs, accompanied byCaptain Tiago and Dona Isabel, while Maria Clara locked herself upin the oratory.
"Do me the favor to tell Andeng to get the house ready, and thatMaria and Isabel are coming. A pleasant journey!" While the Captainwas saying this, Ibarra got into the carriage and drove off in thedirection of the Plaza of San Gabriel.
A few minutes later the Captain shouted to Maria Clara, who was weepingby the side of the image of the Virgin: "Hurry up and light two pesetacandles in honor of San Roque and another in honor of San Rafael, thepatron saint of travellers. And light the lamp of Our Lady of Peaceand Protector of Travellers, for there are many bandits about. It isbetter to spend four reales for wax and six cuartos for oil than tohave to pay a big ransom later on."