After the fishing excursion, my uncle came every afternoon to make love
to his _fiancée_, and all that dawning intimacy between her and me
disappeared; perhaps it was imaginary all along. The wedding-day was
fast approaching, and one could notice in the house that excitement
which always precedes any great domestic event.
One morning my uncle went to _Naranjal_ to invite Sotopeña to honor him
by attending his wedding. But the great man was suffering with
biliousness, and was just about to start for the Mondáriz Springs, and
his many urgent matters of business and important engagements would not
permit him to put off his journey even for twenty-four hours. This
refusal was a severe blow to my uncle, whose influence in the province
would increase on receiving a public testimony of esteem from the
tutelary divinity of the region; from the man who was so popular, even
among the men from his province, resident in the West Indies and South
America.
Señor Aldao, on the contrary, felt more at his ease when he found out
that Don Vicente would not visit them. What opinion would the owner of
_Naranjal_ form about the ornamental improvements effected at Tejo? Don
Román’s instinctive regard for his own vanity was very great, and made
him fearful that Sotopeña might laugh in his sleeve at the little
variegated balls which reflected the landscape, at the plaster busts, at
the stained glass windows in the chapel, at the great shield carved in
wood, displaying the armorial bearings of the Aldao family, and at the
hothouse made out of old window frames, and lastly, at all the
arrangements for the wedding.
As the wedding-day drew near, and the friends and relatives sent in
their wedding gifts, my uncle took full advantage of his right to
monopolize Carmen’s conversation, so that I found fewer opportunities to
approach her, though my desire to do so increased more and more. I saw
more clearly every day her glacial coldness toward her future husband,
though it was disguised and covered up by her gracious manners.
I was sure that I was correct in these surmises; it was impossible that
I could make a mistake, as a more disinterested person might. Once or
twice I perceived a start of repulsion, a gesture of nervous impatience
at times when a woman, seated by the man she loves, ought to show a face
lighted up with joy. I also observed--and this lent importance to the
first observation--that Carmen did not display any greater happiness or
tenderness in talking to her father or her brother. She was respectful,
cordial, and affable, but nothing more; never effusive.
On the other hand, I noticed that whenever she spoke to Father Moreno,
she did reveal a warmth of feeling impossible to disguise, because it
shows itself in the gleaming of the eyes and in the inflection of the
voice. Seeing this, I fell into disrespectful soliloquies:
“The little friar cannot cheat me! With those black eyes, that resolute
air, that open character, and the picture with the great beard--oh, oh,
what an Aben Jusuf he is!”
These suspicions were confirmed when I became convinced that the Moorish
father and my aunt used to exchange those glances which everywhere
bespeak a secret understanding; sometimes rapid, though expressive,
sometimes deliberate and full of meaning. One would have said that
Carmiña and the friar were plotting together to effect some mysterious
and important purpose. I even heard them whisper something to each other
in the orchard one day. “Can they meet at night?” I ventured to ask
myself. But when I studied the arrangement of the house, I saw that it
was quite impossible. Father Moreno had the best room in the house,
except the one reserved for the bridal chamber, and it communicated with
Don Román’s room, so that the friar could not stir without being heard
by him. Candidiña and her sister slept in the same room with Carmiña, so
that it was impossible for her to attempt to go out at night without
being detected. Thus I could find no foundation, on that side either,
for my evil surmises.
But nevertheless, I had not the slightest doubt that the friar and
Señorita Aldao understood each other, and were seeking for an
opportunity to meet clandestinely.
I observed this on several occasions. I noticed the guilty ones, after
taking their coffee, attempt to steal into the garden; in the morning
they would try to go secretly away to some nook or corner of the
gallery. They were always interrupted either by Candidiña’s willful
pranks, or by my mischievous intervention, or by Serafín’s jests, or Don
Román’s officious attentions. And Carmen’s annoyance was always apparent
at such times. The father was able to disguise his feelings much better.
As I tried to think what I would do in their place, I began to perceive
that there was one hour left them for a secret meeting, and that was the
very early morning. By arising at daybreak they could solve the problem.
In fact, while the father was saying early mass, the greater number of
the inmates of the country house were cosily lying in bed, as a general
rule.
As I expected that this plan would occur to them, I began myself to get
up at unearthly hours. I would go to bed very early, not without having
a lively skirmish with the clerical apprentice, who was determined to
chat with me till the late hours of the night. Daybreak would scarcely
have come when I would leave my downy couch, and, barely awake, I would
rush off to the orchard, which was delightfully cool, still moist with
the night dews, full of the mysterious quivering of the foliage on being
awakened by the sunrise, and fragrant with the delicious perfumes wafted
in from the flowers in the garden. The murmur of the fountain was more
melodious, sweet, and changeful than ever, as if it fell from heaven
into a vase of glass. All these attractions predisposed me to indulge in
a reverie, and even made me forget that I was lying in ambush.
By the second morning it came easier; and afterward I rose early for my
own pleasure, as I was then persuaded that my ambuscade would not bring
me anything more than the enjoyment of seeing the orchard when so
charming. But I persevered, and on the fourth morning, while drinking in
the pure air with delight, it suddenly occurred to me that it would be
very pleasant to go up into the yew, and from that height watch the sun
rise over the ocean. No sooner said than done. I ascended the stairs,
passed through the ball-room, went up to the supper-room, and thence on
to Bellavista.
I stopped, surprised and enchanted by the panorama spread out at my
feet. Near by was the gentle slope where San Andrés is situated; groves
of chestnut-trees, corn-fields, meadows, and several mills, dotting the
shores of the winding brook like pearl clasps on a diamond necklace,
though they were not yet made brilliant by the rays of the sun. That was
scarcely visible, showing itself, like the betraying reflection of a
great fire, in that part of the horizon where sea and sky flow together,
and where the dark mass of the Casitérides was outlined.
It was a diffused light, like the first uncertain gaze of beautiful,
half-opened eyes. The fog still veiled it. When the first rays of the
red globe began to light up the sea, so marvelously calm, a strange
quivering stirred upon the surface of the waves, which were tinged with
rich colors, as if the hand of some magician had scattered ever them
gold, sapphires, and rubies. At the same time the landscape became
animated, the river glittered in the sun, and the beach at San Andrés
and Portomouro stood out pure and white, as though cleansed by the
waves, with the silvery whiteness of their sands and the green festoons
of their seaweeds. The great aloes, in blossom, displayed their yellow
plumes against the background of the pure sky. The red tiles on the
roofs appeared like coral. Suddenly, like a bird spreading its wings to
fly, the lateen sail of a fisherman’s launch shot forth from the
infinite blue of the estuary, in front of San Andrés, and behind it came
many others pressing together like a flock of doves. I sat there
fascinated.
Some hidden prompting made me look in another direction, and I turned my
gaze toward the orchard and the house,--the latter closed and quiet at
that hour. The coat-of-arms carved on the wooden shield, the baskets
and borders of roses, pansies, and petunias, the little grove of fruit
trees, the watering trough, all appeared, from Bellavista, like sketches
of a geometrical garden traced upon tapestry. The windows of the silent
house gleamed in the sunlight just then.
An event which our imagination has foreseen, though it seems very
unlikely to our reason, excites vivid feelings, even if it does not
really concern us. My heart began to beat rapidly and my hands turned
cold, when I saw both Father Moreno and Carmen emerging from different
doors almost at the same time. They were evidently vying with each other
in punctuality; they had agreed on a fixed hour; and Carmen’s small gold
watch and the father’s bull’s-eye chronometer, given to him by the
English Consul’s wife, agreed to a minute.
When the young lady and the friar caught sight of each other, they
approached each other eagerly, as though they were anxious to meet by
themselves, and had something very important to talk about.
Carmen quickly bent down and kissed the father’s hand. Then, for a
moment, they seemed to be discussing some question in an animated and
serious manner, until the father suddenly extended his arm, pointing
toward the yew tree. I knew that they could not see me, for
instinctively I had hidden behind the thick foliage. I understood their
gestures, which seemed to say:
“Up there in the tree we shall be better situated and can talk at our
ease.”
As soon as I perceived this, I had a sudden idea. I was burning with
eagerness to hear that conversation, whether guilty or innocent, for it
could not fail to be of the greatest interest to me. I felt that the
first thing they would do, before talking unreservedly, would be to
search the tree, although it was not likely that anybody would be there
at such an hour. So I looked around for a hiding place.
The foliage of the yew tree was not merely thick, but almost solid, so
close that any one could easily hide behind it; but it grew thinner
toward the top. I saw no way of concealing myself except by going down
to the supper-room. There I could see and hear them, wherever they
might place themselves. So I descended and, getting over the railing,
hid myself among the shadowy branches, bestriding the strongest one I
saw. Some branches cracked, and two or three smaller ones broke; the
leaves rustled, and several startled birds flew off with a great
fluttering of wings, to escape my pursuit, as they thought it.
Fortunately, the friar and my uncle’s _fiancée_ were passing under the
covered walk of the arbor just then, and it was not possible for them to
glance toward the tree, or to see anything if they did. Otherwise they
would have noticed the agitation of the branches, comparable to that of
the water in a tank when a nutshell falls into it. They were still
rustling and quivering when I heard the tapping of Carmen’s feet, and
the father’s ponderous tread, coming up the stairway.
They sat down close to each other, placing themselves so that I could
see their faces by looking a little up; and as they were in full light,
while I was in comparative darkness, I could all the better study their
expression and even hear their quick breathing, caused by their climb,
and the creaking of the chair when the friar dropped his heavy weight on
it.
He spoke first, praising their selection of a spot where they might have
a confidential chat without being overheard.
“Yes, it is true,” said the young lady, well satisfied. “I agree with
you, there is no other place where we can talk with entire freedom.
Either Serafín or Salustio would make their appearance in the orchard,
and would stick to us, and there it would be impossible. Even if they
should take a fancy to get up early, they would never think of coming to
the yew tree. And have you noticed how persistent they are, how they
will scarcely let one breathe?”