Friars and Filipinos Part 47

In another part of the room they were talking like this:

"Marry, when her former betrothed is about to be hanged!"

"I call that prudence; to have one on hand as a subst.i.tute."

Possibly the young maiden heard these remarks as she sat in a chair near by, arranging a tray of flowers, for her hand was seen to tremble, she turned pale and bit her lips a number of times.

The conversation among the men was in a loud tone. Naturally, they were conversant with the recent happenings. All were talking, even Don Tiburcio, with the exception of Father Sibyla, who maintained a disdainful silence.

"I have heard that Your Reverence leaves the town, Father Salvi?" asked the newly made lieutenant, now made more amiable by the star on his sleeve.

"I have nothing more to do now in San Diego. I am permanently settled in Manila now ... and you?"

"I also leave the town," replied the former alferez, straightening up. "The Government needs me to take command of a flying column to clear the provinces of filibusteros."

Friar Salvi looked him over from head to foot, and turned his back to him completely.

"Is it yet known for a certainty what is to become of the leader of the revolutionists?" asked a Government employee.

"Are you referring to Crisostomo Ibarra?" asked another. "What is most probable and most just is that he be hanged, as those were in '72."

"He will be exiled," said the old lieutenant, dryly.

"Exiled! Nothing more than exiled! But it will be a perpetual exile!" exclaimed several at the same time.

"If that young fellow," Lieutenant Guevara went on to say in a loud voice, "had been more cautious; if he had trusted certain people less with whom he had correspondence; and if the officers had not made a subtle interpretation of what was written--if it had not been for all of this, that young man would surely have gone free."

This statement by the old lieutenant and the tone of his voice produced a great surprise in the room. Those who heard it did not know what to say. Father Salvi looked in another direction, perhaps so as not to meet the dark look which the old man directed toward him. Maria Clara dropped her flowers and sat motionless. Father Sibyla, the one who knew how to keep silent, appeared to be the only one who knew how to ask questions.

"Are you referring to the letters, Senor Guevara?"

"I am telling what the defendant's attorney told me. He has taken up the case with zeal and interest. Aside from some ambiguous lines which this young man wrote to a young woman before departing for Europe, they have found no proof to sustain the accusation. In these few lines, the officers saw a plan and threat against the Government."

"And what about the declaration made by the bandit before he died?"

"That statement has proved of no account, since, according to the bandit himself, the conspirators never had communicated with the young man, but only with one, Lucas, who was Ibarra's enemy, as they have been able to prove, and who committed suicide, perhaps from remorse. It has been proved that the papers found in the possession of the dead man were forged, since the handwriting was like that of Ibarra seven years ago, but not like that of to-day--a fact which shows that it was copied from the letter used as evidence against him. Besides, his attorney says that if Ibarra had not admitted the genuineness of the letter, he would have been able to do much for him; but, at the sight of it, the young man turned pale, lost heart and acknowledged that he had written it."

"Do you say," asked a Franciscan, "that the letter was directed to a young woman? How did it get into the hands of the officers?"

The lieutenant did not reply. He looked for a moment at Friar Salvi and then walked off, twisting nervously the end of his grey beard. In the meantime, others were commenting something like this:

"There you see the hand of G.o.d!" said one. "Even the women hate him."

"He had his house burned, thinking that he could thus save himself. But he did not reckon with his host--that is, with his querida, [23] with his babai," [23] added another, smiling. "That is G.o.d's work. Santiago protects Spain!"

The old army officer stopped and approached Maria Clara. She was listening to the conversation, immovable in her seat. The flowers were at her feet.

"You are a very prudent young woman," said the old lieutenant to her in a low voice. "You have done well to hand over the letter.... In this way you will a.s.sure yourself of a peaceful future."

With dull eyes, and biting her lips, she looked at him as he walked away. Luckily, Aunt Isabel pa.s.sed her at this moment. Maria Clara summoned enough strength to catch hold of her aunt's dress.

"Aunt," she murmured.

"What is the matter with you?" asked the latter, frightened, as she saw the young woman's face.

"Take me to my room!" she begged, clinging to the arm of the old woman in order to raise herself to her feet.

"Are you sick, my child? You seem to have lost all your strength. What is the matter with you?"

"A little sick to my stomach ... the crowd in the sala ... so much light ... I need to rest. Tell father that I am going to sleep."

"You are cold! Do you want some tea?"

Maria Clara shook her head negatively. She closed the door of her room and locked it, and, her strength failing her, she fell to the floor, at the feet of an image, weeping and sobbing:

"Mother, mother, my mother!"

The moonlight was shining through the open window and door which led out upon the azotea.

The orchestra continued playing gay waltzes. The laughter and the hum of conversation could be heard in her bedroom. A number of times her family, Aunt Isabel, Dona Victorina, and even Linares, knocked at her door, but Maria Clara did not move. There was a rattle in her throat.

Hours pa.s.sed. The pleasures of the table ended, and dancing followed. Her little candle burned out, but the maiden lay quietly on the floor, the rays of moonlight shining upon her at the foot of an image of the Mother of Jesus.

Gradually the noises in the house died away, the lights were put out, and Aunt Isabel again knocked at the door of her room.

"Let us leave her; she is sleeping," said her aunt. "At her age, with nothing to trouble her, she sleeps like a corpse."

When all was again silent, Maria arose slowly and glanced around her. She saw the azotea and the small climbing plants bathed in the melancholy light of the moon.

"A peaceful future! Sleeping like a corpse!" she murmured in a low voice, and turned toward the azotea.

The city was quiet. Only the noise of an occasional carriage pa.s.sing over the wooden bridge could be heard in the stillness of the night, while the tranquil waters of the river were reflecting the moonlight.

The maiden raised her eyes to the pure, sapphire-colored sky. Slowly she took off her rings, her hair-combs, her earrings, and her breast-pin, and placing them upon the bal.u.s.trade of the azotea she looked out toward the river.

A banca, loaded with rice gra.s.s, stopped at the foot of the landing on the bank of the river at the rear of the house. One of the two men who were propelling the boat went up the stone steps, leaped over the wall, and a few seconds afterward, steps were heard coming up the azotea.

Maria Clara saw him stop on discovering her, but it was for only a moment. The man advanced slowly and at about three steps from the maiden, stopped again. Maria Clara stepped back.

"Crisostomo!" she gasped, full of terror.

"Yes, I am Crisostomo!" replied the young man, in a grave voice. "An enemy, a man who has good reason to hate me, Elias, has helped me out of the prison into which my friends had thrown me."

Silence followed these words. Maria Clara bowed her head and allowed both her hands to drop at her side.

Ibarra continued:

"Beside the dead body of my mother, I swore to make you happy, whatever might be my destiny. You can break your oath; she was not your mother. But I, who am her son, I hold her memory sacred, and, running great risk, I have come here to fulfill my oath. Fortune permits me to speak with you personally. Maria, we shall not see each other again. You are young and perhaps some day your conscience may accuse you.... I come to tell you, before leaving, that I forgive you. Now, may you be happy, and good-bye!"