Florencia, who was distraught at her uncle’s disappearance, and tore her hair and bewailed herself as a bereaved niece should, found her way to Chinita to pour out her griefs and fears; although since the change in the young girl’s position they had by common consent ignored their former relations,—Florencia, because of the wide social gulf fixed between the great house and the hovels around it; Chinita, from pure indifference. She was too full of her new life to think of the old, or of the persons connected with it.
It was so early that she was still not fully dressed, and the chocolate wherewith to break her fast stood untouched upon the table, when the sound of some one sobbing at the door brought a tone of sorrow into thoughts which had simply been vexed before.
Chinita had risen in an ill humor. Doña Rita and Rosario, and even Chata herself, had failed to show any surprise at her position. True, Don Rafael had warned them of it; but at least something more than a kindly indifference might have greeted her,—if only a glance of envy from Rosario. What wonderful things had they all seen, that they had no thoughts to spare for her? Bah! Rosario had neither eyes nor thoughts for any one but the young officer with the red neck-tie. Well, they should see! But what of Doña Rita,—and Chata too? Why, Chinita hardly knew her. Was she also thinking but of herself, like the others? That was a change in Chata, and one that ill-suited her.
Chinita had slept badly for thinking of these things; and truth to tell, when her mind was ill at ease the softness of the bed troubled her. She had dreamed of snakes, of three snakes who had lifted their heads out of water to hiss at her. Here was the first one. Certainly she had not dreamed of snakes for nothing. Well, to be sure, here was Florencia, whom she had almost forgotten, come with some trouble! She felt a little flutter of gratification, and unconsciously assumed the air of a patrona, as she said,—
“Ah, is it then Florencia? And what ails thee; and how can I help thee? What, has Tomasito broken the newest water-jar, or by better fortune his neck? Or has Terecita choked herself with a dry bean?”
“God has not desired to do me such favors,” returned Florencia, piously and with a flood of tears. “No, rather than my children should become little angels, he prefers that they shall be friendless upon the earth. Ay de mi! what is a father, what is a husband (and you know the very driveller of a man I have), what is any one to an uncle who was a gatekeeper of Tres Hermanos?—a veritable treasure of silver, a spring of refreshing! Was there ever a time Florencia asked a shilling of Pedro in vain?”
At another time Chinita would have laughed at this pious exaggeration; now it filled her with inexpressible alarm.
“What! is my god-father dead?” she cried, wringing her hands and for the moment relapsing into the demonstrative gestures and cries of her plebeian training. “Ay Dios, Florencia, it cannot be! Answer me, stupid one! Is thy mouth as full as thy eyes that thou canst not answer?”
“Is chocolate served to the poor at day-break?” cried Florencia in an injured tone, and with a glance at the dainty breakfast; and then at an impatient word from Chinita she explained how Pedro had departed in the night, though the hacienda doors were locked upon the inside, and conjectured that if he had not been spirited away by the Devil, he had gone to join the Liberal General Gonzales,—there could be no other alternative. She had heard Señor Don Rafael talking to him till late in the night of how Gonzales had beaten the General Ramirez at El Toro, and was still there trying to strengthen his forces, while those of the Clergy had disappeared, no one knew where, but surely to gather men and means to recover the lost position.
Chinita’s eyes flashed. She knew nothing of politics, but she thrilled at the name of Ramirez. She laughed scornfully that Pedro should throw his puny strength into the force against him. Still she said, “God keep him;” and jested away Florencia’s fears.