After that she made no further comment; but her eyes often followed the movements of Chata with a puzzled expression painful to see. One day after she had become convalescent, Doña Carmen spoke of this. “Whom does she remind you of?” she asked lightly.
“I cannot tell; I do not know,” Doña Isabel answered wearily. “Perhaps it is of Chinita. Oh! I can think of nothing but Chinita. Are they still looking for her, as I have prayed,—as I have commanded?”
“Mother,” said Doña Carmen, solemnly, “who is Chinita? Why should you care so much?”
The face of Doña Isabel grew rigid. “Shall I tell you what you have uttered in your delirium?” continued Doña Carmen, looking fixedly into her mother’s eyes. “Shall I ask you if you spoke the truth, or if what I have gathered—here a word, there a word—is but a dreadful fancy? Mother, Mother! if it is the truth, no wonder that the fate of this girl is on your soul! No wonder Herlinda—”
She paused affrighted. In her excitement she had said far more than she had intended. What if her mother in her delicate condition should sink beneath this cruel attack,—should faint, should die? Carmen threw herself down beside the couch with a prayer for forgiveness.
Doña Isabel in the first surprise had clasped her hands over her heart. Slowly the pale hue of life returned to her face. “Carmen,” she whispered faintly, “speak! speak! After all these years, accusation—even from my own child—is more bearable than silence. O my God, I meant well!—it was for Herlinda’s sake. Yet what remorse, what agony I have suffered!”
The two women sank into each other’s arms. There had ever been a barrier of reserve between them,—in a moment it was swept away. Doña Isabel poured out her heart. It was Carmen who withheld what might have been revealed; a conviction seized her that there was much in this strange family mystery yet undeclared, and of which Doña Isabel knew nothing; and that her mother’s mind was in no condition to be perplexed by further doubts and complications. She left the room and went to her husband.
“Chulita my beautiful one,” he said anxiously, as she was about to leave him an hour later, “thou wilt do nothing rash? Yet I will not forbid thee. In truth, but that robberies and abductions are so common upon the roads, I would go with thee myself.”
“Not for the world!” exclaimed Doña Carmen in genuine consternation. “They would seize thee and carry thee into the mountains. But as for me,—I promise thee no robber shall think me worth a second thought. But hold thee ready,—the desire may come to her at a moment’s thought, and I would not leave thee without warning; I would not have thee unprepared.”