Chinita laughed. “Thou art vexed, Pedro; but I love thee, and I would love thee more if thou wouldst tell me the name of my father or my mother.” Pedro shook his head. “Oh, I am sure thou dost not know; thou couldst not have kept a secret all these years!” She looked at him sharply, but he was not the man to begin unwary defences, which might to a keen eye expose the weakest spots in his armor. He stood for some moments quite silent. Chinita saw by the moonlight that his face had lines upon it she had never seen before. Her conscience smote her, yet she could not say she was sorry for the fate which had parted them,—for it did not occur to her any more than to him that he might question the act of Doña Isabel, and refuse to yield the child he had sheltered from its birth.
“What secret should the tool have?” he asked at length bitterly. “It is taken up and laid by as the master wills. Years ago I used to think I was a man, but since then I have been but a dog to watch and to guard; but the watch is over, and the dog may be a man again. That would please you, would it not? There is better work than to sit at a gate and see the soldiers come and go, and never hear so much as the echo of a shot; or as much as know why there is a smell of blood always in the air, and men are dragged away to death. Gonzales told me the struggle is for liberty; I can do no more for you, and I will go and see. Who knows what I may find beyond there? Who knows what news I may bring to you?”
The face usually so stoical in its expression was lighted as if by an inward fire. For the first time Chinita knew that this man too had his ambitions, the stronger that they had been repressed for years. Would he join the next band of soldiers or bandits that came that way? The thought struck her comically, like a touch of the mock heroic; yet it thrilled her. She would have liked to be a soldier herself. She would have chosen to be a boy to go with him; and yet she was glad they were to part, if that indeed was his meaning,—that her foster father would no longer sit at the gate.
He had touched her hand and bent to kiss it humbly, as he might have saluted Doña Isabel herself. Then he thrust a long narrow package through the bars, muttered softly, “Adios” and stole noiselessly away.
Though Chinita saw him at his old place on the morrow, she understood that an eternal farewell had been made to their old relations and their old life. All that remained of them was contained in the package of trinkets he had brought her,—the coral beads, the few irregular pearls, the many-hued reboso, and the ribbons she had prized and which in his simplicity he had thought she would regret. Indeed, she had recognized them with a thrill of delight; nothing half so bright or costly had been offered her in the new life she had imagined would be so rich and brilliant. Yet she clung to it as hers of right, the more firmly after turning over and over, again and again, the dainty swaddling clothes, which she had never seen before, but which she knew Pedro had yielded to her as the sole possessions with which she had come to him,—possessions useless in themselves, but invaluable to her as proofs that she came from no plebeian stock. She wondered if her mother had arrayed her in them to cast her out,—and though she was of no gentle mould, her mind revolted from the thought. Then, had her father disowned her; or had an enemy filched her from her cradle, and unwilling to be guilty of her blood, left her in the first hands he had encountered? She ran over in her mind all the tales she had heard of mysterious disappearances,—and they were not a few,—but none would fit the case; and surely a hue-and-cry would have been made at the abduction of a rich man’s infant.
Chinita wrapped up the clothes and hid them away in impatient despair. Once she thought of taking them to Doña Isabel; but what would be gained by that? That her protectress knew the secret of her birth she was convinced, not by any course of reasoning, but by the simple fact that she had assumed the charge of her as her right. The girl did not know how baseless are apt to be the caprices of a great lady.
The days passed wearily to the eager child. They would have been intolerable—for she was always alone or with Doña Isabel, who gave her no certain status as equal or inferior, and with whom she was feverishly defiant, or seized with sudden tremors of awe or actual fear—but that she knew Don Rafael had gone to bring his family home. She longed to pour her secret thoughts into the ears of Chata, to show the infant clothes and hear her comments and suggestions. It appeared to her that Chata would certainly penetrate the gloom, and in her sweet simplicity throw some light upon the mystery which enveloped her. Besides, the wilful girl exulted in the anticipation of dazzling the eyes of Rosario and Doña Rita by her connection with Doña Isabel. She was shrewd enough to see it had greatly increased her importance in the estimation of the servants and employees. Even Don Rafael, before he went away, had seized an opportunity to ask her whether she was content, and afterward had never failed to bow to her with grave politeness when they met.
Once a strange thought had been set in the child’s mind: it returned and vexed her again and again. Doña Feliz had come into the room when in an unusual mood of devotion Chinita had knelt to pray before the image of the Virgin, before which, though she did not know it, had been poured forth so many bitter cries. Feliz started as she saw her, and Chinita rose to her feet.
“Do not rise,” said Doña Feliz; “learn, child, to pray. Many amens must perforce reach Heaven; it is well to begin thy task young.”
“What task?” Chinita queried. “I shall have something more to do than to pray all my life. That is for saints and nuns; and even Pedro would not take me for a saint.”