If only you were here to tell me that you love me still
in spite of my misfortune. See! The tears are falling as I write.
My eyes are dim, my fingers trace uncertain letters on the sheet,
and I can only steady them when I remember that you promised to
return. You WILL return, will you not? I could not write like this
if I were sure that you would read these lines. My nightly prayer-
-But I will not tell you of my prayers, for fate may guide this
letter to you, after all, and the hearts of men do change. In
those dark hours when my doubts arise I try to tell myself that
you will surely come and search me out.
Sometimes I play a game with Evangelina--our only game. We gather
wild flowers. We assort the few belongings that I managed to bring
with me and I array myself for you. And then I smile and laugh for
a little while, and she tells me I am beautiful enough to please
you. But the flowers fade, and I know that beauty, too, will fade
in such surroundings. What then? I ask myself.
When you return to Cuba--see, my faith is strong again--avoid
Matanzas, for your own sake and mine. Don Mario wanted to marry me
to save me this exile. But I refused; I told him I was pledged to
you, and he was furious. He is powerful; he would balk you, and
there is always room for one more in San Severino. Pancho Cueto,
too, living in luxury upon the fruits of his crime, would
certainly consider you a menace to his security.
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