For the Soul of Rafael

by Marah Ellis Ryan

"Doña Raquel Arteaga—she was in here, and I said things I—well—you heard! Does she know the truth about you?"

"Not even does she suspect. No one here has ever seen me since this beard is over my face. I pass the men on the plaza who hunted me with hounds and guns to the water's edge a year ago, and they bow their heads and lower their voices not to disturb my devotions. Madre de Dios! it has been great sport, but for the thought of—of a woman whose heart has been shown to me as a priest! The thing I have done is a sacrilege, and Father Andros would scorch me well for it—but I would rather burn than have her ever know the truth—I who am the lover of another woman!"

Keith Bryton reached out his hand to the outlaw, and there were no more words spoken between them of the matter.

Later Doña Angela returned, and hearing from Ana that Bryton was again conscious of his whereabouts, insisted on seeing him; and this time the silent padre of the prayers offered no protest, only sat in the window-seat, and did not lift his eyes, and listened.

"I've been wild—just that, Keith, ever since they brought you back. Who? oh, Doña Raquel and Ana, and, of course, the padre. My! You looked awful. I'm glad you are better. There is to be a really great Spanish dance, and I should have hated to go unless you were out of danger. They would not allow me inside this door before, and I—Keith, there are a thousand things I want to say to you, and—"

The priest arose and made a quiet movement toward the door. The interview was evidently terminated. Keith had not had a chance to say anything, and Doña Angela whisked out of the room in a temper. She sought Rafael, but could not find him, for the reason that he had taken Ana's advice and tumbled into bed. She finally found Ana and Raquel in the dining-room, and smiled tolerantly at the fact that the latter, covered with a great apron of linen, was attending personally to the moulding of candles, and not a servant, not even Ana, was allowed to help.

The days of Doña Angela's stay had brought her face to face with many self-satisfying little scenes of that sort. Remembering that first meeting of the two as strangers, it was comforting to Angela to be able to look down in some way on the wife of Rafael Arteaga; and since she chose to make of herself a servant—— It seemed so incredible to the woman who had never, never, had all she wanted of luxury, that this other girl, young, and many said handsome, had not the natural woman's vanity for decking herself with the gorgeous things stacked in those old chests. To her it seemed a warrant to Rafael to seek companionship elsewhere. A woman who could claim a throne lessened her value by stooping to the cares of the kitchen. It argued low tastes; it emphasized the uneven division of things. It was a constant reminder to Angela Bryton that she, the woman who appreciated it all, who would have held a half-regal Court of Love in the old walls where only endless prayers were whispered,—she was the woman to whom it should belong by right. For her, Rafael Arteaga would have spread carpets of velvet on the tiled floors and cast himself, happy, at her feet.

All these thoughts had given her a sort of insolent courage to comment on the girl who trod the Mission-made bricks, and whose eyes looked out so often over one's head.

"Of all the Indian servants, have you none trained in so laborious a task as this?" she asked, sinking into one of the rawhide-seated chairs at the table. "It is horrid work. I wonder you spoil your hands."

Ana flashed a glance of resentment at the languid blossom of a woman, always a shimmer of lacy ruffles, a picture of alluring, half-childish helplessness. It was for such a white kitten Rafael was losing all his sense.