A Christian Woman

by condesa de Emilia Pardo Bazán

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: