“What was I to do?” she went on. “Ought I to sacrifice to my love the memory of my mother, the honor of him who was supposed to be my father, and the good name of him who is? And could I have done this without bringing dishonor upon you too?”
“But the proof—have you had proof? There must be proof!” said Crisóstomo, staggered.
Maria drew from her breast two papers.
“Here are two letters of my mother’s,” she said, “written in her remorse. Take them! Read them! My father left them in the house where he lived so many years. This man found them and kept them, and only gave them up to me in exchange for your letter, as assurance, he said, that I would not marry you without my father’s consent. I sacrificed my love! Who would not for a mother dead and two fathers living? Could I foresee what use they would make of your letter? Could I know I was sacrificing you too?”
Ibarra was speechless. Maria went on:
“What remained for me to do? Could I tell you who my father was? Could I bid you ask his pardon, when he had so made your father suffer? Could I say to my father, who perhaps would have pardoned you—could I say I was his daughter? Nothing remained but to suffer, to guard my secret, and die suffering! Now, my friend, now that you know the sad story of your poor Maria, have you still for her that disdainful smile?”
“Maria, you are a saint!”
“I am blessed, because you believe in me——”
“And yet,” said Crisóstomo, remembering, “I heard you were to marry——”
“Yes,” sobbed the poor child, “my father demands this sacrifice; he has loved me, nourished me, and it did not belong to him to do it. I shall pay him my debt of gratitude by assuring him peace through this new connection, but——”