Being something of a beauty and more of a coquette, maid Anita chose the roundabout way to her own chamber, along the veranda floor and through the cloister, casting arch glances toward the young lawyer who met her midway the passage, but noticed her not at all.
Yet her trouble was not useless for, at the turn of the corridor, she came upon Miguel and one of the Mexicans who had arrived in the Disbrows’ company. They were talking in Spanish and Anita did not scruple to pause and hearken; and what she overheard worked the customary mischief of all half-truths, and she exclaimed:
“Santa Maria! It is so, then. Old Marta was right! They knew, those small ones, my heart’s delights! and they have run away! Yes, yes, I understand! It was ‘Adios,’ indeed. But—”
Her coquetry now forgotten, Anita hurried back to the kitchen by the shortest route; and, muttering something which Marta did not comprehend, caught off the pot of stew from its hook in the fireplace. Hastily emptying the mess into a handled jar, she seized a loaf from the table and rushed away. The whole transaction had so amazed the housekeeper that she was speechless till, as the flutter of the maid’s scarlet petticoat waved defiance from the dooryard, her voice returned:
“Anita! AN-I-TA! Eyes of my soul, is she daft, that one? An—i—ta! AN—I—I—TA!”
“Fortune favors the daring.” Miguel’s horse Amador stood tethered near; for, when a chance passer-by had reported meeting strangers presumably bound for Refugio, the manager had left the shearing-place and hurried homeward, to find there the most unwelcome guests who had ever sought its shelter.
“Hola! Amador! That is good, yes. This jar grows heavy, and thy feet are swifter than mine!” cried Anita, and mounted. So daringly up and away—on Miguel’s own Amador which none but he must ride!
“They have all gone mad!” shrieked Marta, while Miguel entered the kitchen and indignantly demanded:
“Mother, what ails the women? First the little Carlota; I but whisper to her that which she should know and off she flies, screaming, louder than I dreamed she could. Then comes Anita where she had no business, listens what concerns her not, and off she races, likewise screaming. Now thou—if—what?”
“The podrida—the supper, heart’s idol!” wailed the housekeeper, and her sorely tried son burst into a laugh, which she arrested by a gesture and the words: