She looked up gratefully. “Some days I am spik English very good, maybe?”
“You certainly will. You are a very industrious and patient little girl. I wish I could learn Spanish as readily. Now you must give me a Spanish lesson. What were those pretty words you taught me? Mi alma, mi vida, mi corazon del oszos.” He pronounced the words lingeringly and the dark lashes again drooped over the clear smooth cheek. Then for some reason neither spoke for a few minutes. The flowers stirred around them, the sluggish waters of the bayou plashed softly against the bank; there was a whisper, whisper in the trees overhead. Brightly-colored birds flashed out from the deep green of the live oaks making a vivid streak against the shining leaves. Occasionally there was a rustle in the grass as some small animal slipped to the bayou’s edge and glided into the water. Blythe was absorbed in gazing at the girl’s beauty, while she pulled from their centre the creamy petals of a magnolia blossom.
“Don’t hurt it,” said Blythe, breaking the silence, and placing his hand over hers to arrest the act of destruction.
The color flew to Lolita’s cheek and she sprang to her feet. “It comes late,” she said. “My father returns. I have not his supper prepare, and he will have an anger for me.” The ready tears started to her eyes.
“Oh, I hope not.” Blythe looked consciously around to see Pedro returning home across the field. “I should not have kept you so long. I, too, should have been at home by this time, but it was so pleasant, wasn’t it, Lolita? Good-bye.” He held out his hand but she did not respond to the gesture, instead she ran home with not a look behind, leaving her flowers neglected on the stone. Blythe watched her as she ran on without stopping, then he turned, gathered a flower from the forsaken bunch, looked at it for a moment thoughtfully and stuck it in his coat. He drew a long sigh and went to where he had picketed his horse.
As he rode thoughtfully towards home he realized that he was on dangerous ground. He was an honorable lad and had no idea of playing fast and loose with the pretty Lolita, though she moved him strangely. The daughter of a greaser, despised by Americans! Any nearer relation was out of the question. He had his own share of family pride; he valued public opinion; he was ambitious. His neighbors would consider the plainest, most shiftless of snuff-rubbing damsels his equal so long as she was an American, though she might be far more ignorant, and in every way inferior to Lolita. Clearly Alison was his only refuge. He must not repeat this dangerously fascinating experiment of teaching Lolita to read English. Then his heart swelled within him as he remembered the charm of her slow utterance, the sweet languor of her movements, the soft dovelike expression of her eyes when they were turned upon him for criticism. “No, it will not do,” he said to himself, suddenly urging on his horse. And then he came face to face with John.
But no one except Lolita knew why Blythe was late to supper that night, nor did any one suspect it till afterwards, not even Alison who greeted him with her usual unembarrassed friendliness of manner. He seemed more than usually grave and distrait, she thought, but did not wonder at that, a little later, when the others gathered in a corner of the gallery and she found herself alone with Blythe on a rustic seat in the garden where Laura pointedly left them.
“Your wits certainly are wool-gathering to-night,” she said, rallying him upon his silence. “I have asked you the same question twice and I am still waiting for an answer.”
“Oh, are you?” Blythe had picked up a stick and was making indefinite figures upon the ground. “I suppose I was thinking of a question I wanted to ask you. Will you marry me, Alison?”
“For pity’s sake!” Alison looked at him in surprise. “What in the world did you ask me that for?”