For many days following the unexpected event which closed the feast of Juana’s marriage, an old proverb went the rounds of the gossips of Tres Hermanos: “She who would handle the wild-cat should wear steel gloves.” Doña Isabel had heard it perhaps, though it was not likely to reach her ears then: and assuredly she had reason to remember it.
Perhaps when Chinita crossed the court and followed Doña Isabel upstairs to her own room, dazzling visions flitted before her of being clasped in the embrace of her patroness, and being called by the name which to her was sovereign. But nothing of the sort occurred. Doña Isabel threw herself into a chair as if exhausted, and bent her face upon her hands, leaving the child standing so long regarding her in silence that at length her impatient spirit rose in rebellion, and she said, “The Señora surely brought me here for something more than to stand like a drowsy hen waiting for morning.”
Doña Isabel raised her head at these words, which though impatient did not strike her as impertinent,—she was too well acquainted with the characteristic speech of her inferiors, rich in quaint phrases and figures drawn from familiar objects,—and regarding the girl with that curious mixture of admiration and repulsion which never entirely disappeared, she replied,—
“Thou art a proud child. Humility would better become thee. Hast thou no other name than Chinita, which I hear all call thee?”
“I was baptized like any other Christian,” cried Chinita, indignantly. “And as for surname,” she added recklessly, “if I am not Garcia, you Señora, will tell me!”
Doña Isabel’s lips compressed; no effort of her will could prevent the falling of her eyelids,—an actual fear of the girl seized her; yet she was fascinated. She said not a word, and presently Chinita began to laugh in a low, triumphant tone, which was to Doña Isabel like the mocking of a thousand devils.
“Hush, hush!” she said violently at length. “You distract, you madden me!”
She caught up a candle, took the girl’s hand and drew her impetuously into the corridor. She tried several doors, and opened the first that yielded. It was not until they stood within the room that Doña Isabel knew it was that (long deserted, half unconsciously avoided ) of Herlinda. She started, and clasped her hand over her heart. Then as if scorning her weakness, pointed to the bed, and without a word turned from the room.
With a sense of wild exultation Chinita saw she was to sleep in a bed, like a woman of quality; in the very bed of the daughter, whose name, like that of a saint, was spoken with bated breath by the vulgar, and was perhaps too sacred for utterance by those who had loved her.
The little structure of brass, with its mattresses and pillows, its linen and lace, was unpretentious enough, but Chinita walked around it and eyed it almost in awe, as if it had been the throne of a princess. The candle was beginning to flicker in its socket when she at last lay down, adjusting her head to the unaccustomed pressure of the pillows with some difficulty, saying to herself with an impatient smile, “What a poor creature I am! Even the things I have longed for hurt more than please me to learn to use. But there must be still greater things to conform to, and I shall do it. Oh, yes, Sanchita thought she could ride in a coach, and be taken for a lady as well as another; and I who was born a lady must forget I have been ever a Sanchita. It should not be hard!”