Antonia, wizened and dark, came and went silently. To the people of her race a wedding means a fiesta, a village hubbub, a dance, and varying degrees of drunkenness. She was not herself in this house of a wedding supper for two, and a prosaic attitude toward the one event in life when money ought to be spent freely, even in the face of impending bankruptcy.
But Harboro speedily set her at ease. They were there to eat their supper—that was all there was to it. He wasn’t drinking toasts, or making love. He seemed thoroughly contented; and it didn’t occur to him, clearly, that there was any occasion for making a noise or simulating an excitement which he did not feel.
Antonia regarded him furtively, from over his shoulder, as she waited for Sylvia’s plate with its portion of the roast. He was a strange hombre. Well, she had known big, quiet men before. They were like rocks. It was all very well for a woman if she stood behind such a man for protection as long as she remained quiet; but Heaven help her if she ever undertook to beat him with her fists. She would only break her hands and accomplish nothing else whatever.
Sylvia was not in a mood, seemingly, to eat very heartily; but Harboro thought he understood that, and he made allowances. He did not urge her, unless reassuring tones and comfortable topics may be said to consist of urging.
He regarded her with bright eyes when she poured the coffee; and when her hands trembled he busied himself with trifles so that he would not seem to notice. He produced a cigar and cut the end off with his penknife, and lit it deliberately.
Only once—just before they got up from the table—did he assume the rôle of lover. He turned to Antonia, and with an air of pride and contentment, asked the old woman, in her own language:
“Isn’t she a beautiful child?”
Sylvia was startled by his manner of speaking Spanish. Everybody along the border spoke the language a little; but Harboro’s wasn’t the canteen Spanish of most border Americans. Accent and enunciation were singularly nice and distinct. His mustache bristled rather fiercely over one or two of the words.
Antonia thought very highly of the “child,” she admitted. She was bonisima, and other superlatives.
And then Harboro’s manner became rather brisk again. “Come, I want to show you the house,” he said, addressing his wife.