An Eagle Flight Part 47

In vain the precious wedding presents heaped up; not the brilliants in their velvet cases, not embroideries of pina nor pieces of silk, drew the eyes of Maria Clara. She saw nothing but the journal in which was told the death of Ibarra, drowned in the lake.

Suddenly she felt two hands over her eyes, clasping her head, while a merry voice said to her:

"Who is it? Who is it?"

Maria sprang up in fright.

"Little goose! Did I scare you, eh? You weren't expecting me, eh? Why, I've come from the province to be at your marriage----" And with a satisfied smile, Father Damaso gave her his hand to kiss. She took it, trembling, and carried it respectfully to her lips.

"What is it, Maria?" demanded the Franciscan, troubled, and losing his gay smile. "Your hand is cold, you are pale--are you ill, little girl?" And he drew her tenderly to him, took both her hands and questioned her with his eyes.

"Won't you confide in your G.o.dfather?" he asked in a tone of reproach. "Come, sit down here and tell me your griefs, as you used to do when you were little, and wanted some tapers to make wax dolls. You know I've always loved you--never scolded you----"

and his voice became very tender. Maria began to cry.

"Why do you cry, my child? Have you quarrelled with Linares?"

Maria put her hands over her eyes.

"No; it's not about him--now!"

Father Damaso looked startled. "And you won't tell me your secrets? Have I not always tried to satisfy your slightest wish?"

Maria raised to him her eyes full of tears, looked at him a moment, then sobbed afresh.

"My child!"

Maria came slowly to him, fell on her knees at his feet, and raising her face wet with tears, asked in a voice scarcely audible:

"Do you still love me?"

"Child!"

"Then--protect my father and make him break off my marriage." And she told him of her last interview with Ibarra, omitting everything about the secret of her birth.

Father Damaso could scarcely believe what he heard. She was talking calmly now, without tears.

"So long as he lived," she went on, "I could struggle, I could hope, I had confidence; I wished to live to hear about him; but now--that they have killed him, I have no longer any reason to live and suffer."

"And--Linares----"

"If he had lived, I might have married--for my father's sake; but now that he is dead, I want the convent--or the grave."

"You loved him so?" stammered Father Damaso. Maria did not reply. The father bent his head on his breast.

"My child," he said at last in a broken voice, "forgive me for having made you unhappy; I did not know I was doing it! I thought of your future. How could I let you marry a man of this country, to see you, later on, an unhappy wife and mother? I set myself with all my strength to get this love out of your mind, I used all means--for you, only for you. If you had been his wife, you would have wept for the unfortunate position of your husband, exposed to all sorts of dangers, and without defence; a mother, you would have wept for your children; had you educated them, you would have prepared them a sad future; they would have become enemies of religion; the gallows or exile would have been their portion; had you left them in ignorance, you would have seen them tyrannized over and degraded. I could not consent to this. That is why I found for you a husband whose children should command, not obey; punish, not suffer--I knew your childhood's friend was good, and I liked him, as I did his father; but I hated them both for your sake, because I love you as one loves a daughter, because I idolize you--I have no other love; I have seen you grow up, there isn't an hour in which I do not think of you, you are my one joy----" And Father Damaso began to cry like a child.

"Then if you love me, do not make me forever miserable; he is dead, I wish to be a nun."

The old man rested his forehead in his hand.

"A nun, a nun!" he repeated. "You do not know, my child, all that is hidden behind the walls of a convent, you do not know! I would a thousand times rather see you unhappy in the world than in the cloister. Here your complaints can be heard; there you have only the walls! You are beautiful, very beautiful; you were not made to renounce the world. Believe me, my child, time alters all things; later you will forget, you will love, you will love your husband--Linares."

"Either the convent or--death," repeated Maria, with no sign of yielding.

"Maria," said the father, "I am not young. I cannot watch over you always; choose something else, find another love, another husband, anything, what you will!"

"I choose the convent."

"My G.o.d, my G.o.d!" cried the priest, burying his face in his hands. "You punish me, be it so! But watch over my daughter!--Maria, you shall be a nun. I cannot have you die."

Maria took his hands, pressed them, kissed them as she knelt.

"G.o.dfather, my G.o.dfather," she said.

"Oh, G.o.d!" cried the heart of the father, "thou dost exist, because thou dost chastise! Take vengeance upon me, but do not strike the innocent; save my daughter!"

LV.

THE NOCHEBUENA.

Up on the side of the mountain, where a torrent springs, a cabin hides under the trees, built on their gnarled trunks. Over its thatched roof creep the branches of the gourd, heavy with fruit and flowers. Antlers and wild boars' heads, some of them bearing their long tusks, ornament the rustic hearth. It is the home of a Tagalo family living from the chase and the cup of the woods.

Under the shade of a tree, the grandfather is making brooms from the veins of palm leaves, while a girl fills a basket with eggs, lemons, and vegetables. Two children, a boy and a girl, are playing beside another boy, pale and serious, with great, deep eyes. We know him. It is Sisa's son, Basilio.

"When your foot is well," said the little boy, "you will go with us to the top of the mountain and drink deer's blood and lemon juice; then you'll grow fat; then I'll show you how to jump from one rock to another, over the torrent."

Basilio smiled sadly, examined the wound in his foot, and looked at the sun, which was shining splendidly.

"Sell these brooms, Lucia," said the grandfather to the young girl, "and buy something for your brothers. To-day is Christmas."

"Fire-crackers, I want fire-crackers!" cried the little boy.

"And what do you want?" the grandfather asked Basilio. The boy got up and went to the old man.

"Senor," he said, "have I been ill more than a month?"

"Since we found you, faint and covered with wounds, two moons have pa.s.sed. We thought you were going to die----"

"May G.o.d reward you; we are very poor," said Basilio; "but as to-day is Christmas, I want to go to the pueblo to see my mother and my little brother. They must have been looking everywhere for me."

"But, son, you aren't well yet, and it is far to your pueblo. You would not get there till midnight. My sons will want to see you when they come from the forest."

"You have many children, but my mother has only us two; perhaps she thinks me dead already. I want to give her a present to-night--a son!"