“Beloved, then I am glad I am not in the kingdom of heaven; though, if one dies like Christina, one escapes purgatory. Roberto, when I rise I am very stiff: I think, indeed, I have some rheumatism.”
“That is not unlikely; and also Maria, you have now some years.”
“Let that be confessed; but the good God knows that I lost all my youth in that awful flight of ‘thirty-six.”
“Maria, we all left or lost something on that dark journey. To-day, we shall recover its full value.”
“To be sure—that is what is said—we shall see. Will you now send Dolores to me? I must arrange my toilet with some haste; and tell me, Roberto, what dress is your preference; it is your eyes, beloved, I wish to please.”
Robert Worth was not too old to feel charmed and touched by the compliment. And he was not a thoughtless or churlish husband; he knew how to repay such a wifely compliment, and it was a pleasant sight to see the aged companions standing hand in hand before the handsome suits which Dolores had spread out for her mistress to examine.
He looked at the purple and the black and the white robes, and then he looked at the face beside him. It was faded, and had lost its oval shape; but its coloring was yet beautiful, and the large, dark eyes tender and bright below the snow-white hair. After a few minutes’ consideration, he touched, gently, a robe of white satin. “Put this on, Maria,” he said, “and your white mantilla, and your best jewels. The occasion will excuse the utmost splendor.”
The choice delighted her. She had really wished to wear it, and some one’s judgment to endorse her own inclinations was all that was necessary to confirm her wish. Dolores found her in the most delightful temper. She sat before the glass, smiling and talking, while her maid piled high the snowy plaits and curls and crowned them with the jewelled comb, only worn on very great festivals. Her form was still good, and the white satin fell gracefully from her throat to her small feet. Besides, whatever of loss or gain had marred her once fine proportions, was entirely concealed by the beautifying, graceful, veiling folds of her mantilla. There was the flash of diamonds, and the moonlight glimmer of pearls beneath this flimsy covering; and at her belt a few white lilies. She was exceedingly pleased with her own appearance, and her satisfaction gave an ease and a sense of authority to her air and movements which was charming.
“By Maria’s grace, I am a very pretty old lady,” she said to herself; “and I think I shall I astonish my daughter-in-law a little. One is afraid of these calm, cool, northern women, but I feel to-day that even Abbie must be proud of me.”
Indeed, her entrance into the large parlor made quite a sensation. She could see the quiet pleasure in her husband’s face; and her son Thomas, after one glance, put down the child on his knee, and went to meet her. “Mi madre,” he whispered with a kiss. He had not used the pretty Spanish word for years, but in the sudden rush of admiring tenderness, his boyish heart came back to him, and quite unconsciously he used his boyhood’s speech. After this, she was not the least in awe of her wise daughter-in-law. She touched her cheek kindly, and asked her about the children, and was immeasurably delighted when Abbie said: “How beautiful you are to-day! I wish I had your likeness to send to Boston. Robert, come here and look at your grandmother! I want you to remember, as long as you live, how grandmother looks to-day.” And Robert—a fine lad eight years old, accustomed to implicit obedience—put down the book he was reading, planted himself squarely before the Senora, and looked at her attentively, as if she was a lesson to be learned.