"Oh, he was? Alone?" asked Rafael.
Juanita nodded. "And a priest," she added. "They both rode south."
"Bryton alone?" mused Rafael. "I thought perhaps—Did any strangers ride south last night,—a large party?"
No one had heard of any one passing.
"Doña Maria comes in a carriage by this morning," he remarked, "and Mrs. Bryton. I suppose they will want you to travel in their carriage, if you feel equal to the drive to San Juan."
"Oh, she must not go to-day—not for anything!" decided Doña Refugia, who had come from the hall and overheard. "Doña Maria and her friend can stop here a few days, and then perhaps if your wife is strong enough—"
"Certainly, that is the best, the very best," assented Rafael, with a smile of relief. Doña Refugia was making it necessary that Raquel should at least meet the friends of Doña Maria. All was turning out well, after all.
Raquel made no remark, only looked out idly across the garden to the fields, yellow where the mustard bloom glowed. She knew she could not bear it just yet. Later, perhaps, she could grow strong enough to see Bryton's wife, and hear her voice cut across the days and the dusks here, where his whispers had awakened her to life—some day, perhaps; but she knew it could not be either to-day or to-morrow.
Her husband watched her curiously. If she would only give some sign of what she felt, as another woman would do! How was a man to read a woman who stared out on life like a sphinx, seeing nothing and hearing nothing?
In the same way, she had seemed a bit of wood over that old legend of the curse on San Juan: it had not changed in the least her determination to go back there; yet, since she had screamed of it in a fever, who was to know what feeling it had awakened back of those fathomless violet eyes?