There was not a moment's hesitation on the part of Doña Maria. Let her English husband feel as he might, she meant to enter the doors where only the most exclusive had been entertained, since the day of the new chatelaine had dawned. Raquel Estevan de Arteaga was too well bred to make a scene when she returned and found them there, and Doña Maria had too much of the blood of Mexican gamblers in her veins not to be willing to take all chances when she wanted a thing very much.
As to the fact that her host and her charmingly troublesome guest would be thrown together even more than in the south, it did not trouble her in the least. Even the bishop could not blame her for what occurred in the house of Raquel Arteaga! Let that lady stay at home and guard her own husband. And if she failed,—well, it might be well to have some of that cold, Indian-like pride of hers lowered.
The Doña Angela said nothing, only smiled a little, and pretended to understand none of the Spanish spoken, but the padre, watching her wide childish blue eyes, and her rosebud of a mouth, noticed also the one quick birdlike glance she flung toward Rafael, and felt, like Doña Maria, that the stubborn pride of Raquel Arteaga was at last to be lowered a little. She had been as an eagle swimming in the blue above all their heads, but this petite, golden-headed ladybird would sip more of honey from the blossoms of life, and touch more closely an Arteaga!
And when, after the very gay supper in the old refectory, Rafael brought a mantilla for Doña Angela, that its lacy film might protect her from the soft air of the starlight, the padre poured an extra glass of wine for the Doña Maria, the Don Eduardo, and himself, and held them in discussion. Fernando and Juanita and the other young people could go along and show the Doña Angela how beautiful were the arches and corridors after the sun was gone, but they, the older people, were content with the shelter of adobe walls after the night fell.
So they wandered forth, Fernando with a guitar, that the end of a perfect day should be celebrated in love-songs; and as he protested that they sounded better at a distance, he and Juanita strayed off into the night.
Doña Angela and Don Rafael, from a throne of sculptured stars and circles, suns and crescents,—all the Aztec symbols of light,—listened to the passion expressed in "El Tormento de Amor" floating down to them from the tiled roof of the corridors, and later, when the doors were closed on the girls for the night, those two still listened together to the musical cadence of "Vengo à tu Ventana" sung under barred windows, and to other harmonies never written in music, but known as a compelling power to the tempestuous heart of the Mexican. Under the stars of that night, the butterfly was made to feel that the beautiful tiger she had at first paraded as a trophy was not to be laughed at,—never any more! And even when the dawn broke, she lay wide-eyed behind the iron bars of her window, wordless and frightened,—a magician who had raised a spirit stronger than her power to subdue. What a trifle it had been at first,—a mere flirtation for the sake of his handsome eyes, and now—
She told herself over and over that it was Keith Bryton's fault, and that wooden Mexican woman's fault. Why had she barred her out and raised the aggressive spirit in her? It was not in the beginning that she really meant to take her husband. And why should Keith betray his indifference in the way he did? It was so easy to show him that other men were not indifferent. And oh, the awful dismal tragedy of it! To think that by such a little, little chance she had missed being legitimate queen over this most royal domain!
“After the Very Gay Supper”
But that other woman, the Mexican, would hold it all, always! Another woman might win Rafael's smile and his love-songs, but the acres, the herds, the coin, and the jewels (he had allowed Doña Maria to show the latter to her guests that evening), all those things would be held always in the slender strong hand of Raquel Arteaga—Raquel Arteaga, who stood guard over even his soul, lest the heretics—