“Did I say American?” retorted Chinita with a laugh at the thought of the jest she had made, for the idea of falsehood did not occur to her. “Ah, yes! I told him the American was my father! He would have believed me even had I said Señor San Gabriel. Oh, it is a grand diversion to see his eyes open with wonder! Selsa says he is dumb and deaf and understands nothing, but there is not a word I say that he does not understand quickly enough; and he knows—” But she ceased suddenly, for Doña Isabel was deadly white. She had turned to the American almost fiercely, and demanded hoarsely, “What has this child told you? What tale has she poured into your ears, wild, improbable,—the dreams of a child, filled with the superstitious tales of the common people? What have you heard? What have you believed?”
Ashley Ward looked at her in some surprise at her vehemence. Her gestures did not translate to him the purport of words which had not even a familiar sound. After a moment he shook his head, and said slowly: “No comprendo! I do not understand Spanish.”
Doña Isabel breathed freely; her rigid face relaxed; she almost smiled. “Foolish child,” she said to Chinita; “he does not understand our language. Come, thou shalt have chocolate with me. I am not angry, though thou art a runaway.”
Chinita seldom afterward found Doña Isabel so gracious when she had committed a fault; but she discovered at night, when she was left in her room alone, that that particular escapade was not to be repeated. The door which led to the adjoining room was locked, as well as that which opened upon the corridor. She shook the bars of the window in impotent rage. She opened her mouth to scream, to wake the echoes with the name of Pedro, but at a second thought refrained, and went and lay quietly down like a baffled animal reserving its strength for the time when its prey should be near. She did not sleep. She had done nothing to tire her, and also she had dropped into slumber more than once during the day in the silence of Doña Isabel’s room, where she had sat watching her, as she opened drawers and boxes, and as if by stealth moved various articles to a large trunk, turning from it with affected carelessness when Doña Feliz or any servant entered.
Chinita was living over again in her mind the long monotonous day, feeling as if a thunder-clap or some convulsion of Nature must break upon the feverish stillness, when she heard a tap at her window. The sash was already raised, but she sprang noiselessly from the bed and across the floor, and thrust her hand through the bars, for she divined that Pedro had called her.
“It is but for a moment, niña,” he whispered, almost humbly, as he kissed her hand. “But tell me, art thou happy; art thou content?”
“Why should I not be happy?” she asked. “I have worn a silk gown all day long, and have eaten and drunk things so dainty a humming-bird might sip them; and Doña Isabel has dared not say no to me,—though she does not love me, Pedro, and I love not her.”
“Then thou wilt come again to poor Pedro, who does love thee?” queried the gatekeeper in a tremulous and doubting voice.
She withdrew her hand, tossing her head scornfully. “No,” she said. “You know how the black cat strayed once into the hut, and though Florencia drove him away, and would strike and frighten him if he stole as much as a morsel of dried beef, he would come back and curl himself under the bench, and lie there upon the cold floor, though he might have gone to the granaries and had his fill of fat mice, and plenty of straw to lie on. Well, Pedro, I am the black cat, and I will stay in Doña Isabel’s house because it is my humor, and I cannot tell why, and there is an end of it.”
Pedro sighed; but presently he said in his slow way, “Well, well! God is God,—may he care for thee! Pedro can be of no more use to thee; the guitar that doesn’t accord with the voice is best hung upon the wall. Farewell, Chinita; God grant thee so much good that thou needst not remember thy old friends.”