e suffered for
all these years. That's what I get for sacrificing myself, day in day
out, trying to make somebody out of him!"

The austere dona Bernarda, dethroned by her son's resolute
rebelliousness, wept as she said this. In her tears of a mother's grief
there was something also of the chagrin of the authoritarian on finding
in her own home a will rebellious to hers and stronger than hers.

Between sobs she told don Andres how her son had been carrying on since
his declaration of independence. He was no longer cautious about
spending the night away from home. He was coming in now in broad
daylight; and, afternoons, with his meals "still in his mouth" as she
said, he would take the road to the Blue House, on the run almost, as if
he could not get to perdition soon enough. The dead hand of his father
was upon him!

All you had to do was look at him. His face discolored, yellow, pale;
his skin drawn tight over his cheekbones; and--the only sign of
life--the fire that gleamed in his eyes like a spark of wild joy! Oh, a
curse was on the family! They were all alike ...!

The mother did her best to conceal the truth from Remedios. Poor girl!
She was going about crestfallen and in deep dejection, unable to explain
Rafael's sudden withdrawal.

The matter had to be kept secret; and that was what held dona Bernarda's
rage within bounds during her rapid, heated exchanges with her son.

Perhaps everything would come out all right in the end--something
unforeseen would turn up to undo the evil spell that had been cast over
Rafael. And in this hope she used every effort to keep Remedios and her
father from learning what had happened. She feigned contentment in their
presence, and invented a thousand pretexts--studies, work, even
illness--to justify her son's neglect of his "fiancee." At the same
time, the disconsolate mother feared the people around her--the gossip
of a small town, bored with itself, ever on the alert, hunting for
something interesting to talk about and get scandalized about.

The news of Rafael's affair spread like wildfire meanwhile, considerably
magnified as it passed from mouth to mouth. People told hair-raising
tales of that expedition down the river, of walks through the orange
groves, of nights spent at dona Pepa's house, Rafael entering in the
dark, in his stocking feet, like a thief; of silhouettes of the lovers
outlined in suggestive poses against the bedroom curtain; of their
appearing in window