One day the old woman called him to her, and looked, in her curious way, at him for a long time. “Crimson Tuft,” she said, “you are my servant, but I have given you great advantages, so that you are as well educated as many a rich man’s son. But that is not all; I wish to make your fortune.”
Then the old woman fell into a deep study, and Crimson Tuft stood waiting and wondering what would come next.
At length he grew tired. “Señora,” he said, “you wanted to speak with me.”
She gave a sudden start as he spoke. “Oh! yes,” she replied, “but I had forgotten you. You are my servant, and have been so always.”
“Always?” asked Crimson Tuft.
A dark frown passed over the old woman’s face, and Crimson Tuft regretted his folly. He was very anxious to hear what she had to say to him. There might be some hope of relief. But again she was silent; and, worse than all, she seemed displeased.
The Donna Leota passed the open window, singing lightly a pretty Spanish air, and the shadows began to clear away from the clouded brow.
“Excuse me, señora,” said Crimson Tuft, softly. “If in some way I can serve you, I shall be only too happy.” He, too, had heard the soothing song.
“Crimson Tuft,” she replied, “I am not now so strong as I was twenty good years ago, and I want some one near me whom I can trust, for I have affairs that must be attended to now—some one who will not cheat me out of my gold. I have looked carefully about, and can see no one but you—you, whom I have trained, educated, and cared for so many years. The world is so ungrateful and wicked! Even you, who owe every thing to me, might rob me—me, an old woman. It would be a wicked thing—a great crime!”
The red, eager eyes of the old woman were fastened upon the face of the young man, and with all her shrewdness she tried to read him. Her pinched features grew sharper, and her voice shrill as the whistling wind. She grasped her staff, and hobbled across the room several times, in an excited manner.