She found her in her favorite arbor, spinning, but when she saw Lenore she laid aside her distaff, and drew the child to her, with a mischievous smile upon her dark face.
Her treatment of Lenore had always been marked by a strange commingling of the love she bore the mother, and aversion she felt for the father, but through it all, she wove a web of fascination, that gave her great power over the susceptible heart of the young girl. Lenore sat down by her side, and for a while she talked of Spain, smoothing the child's hair caressingly with her wrinkled hand, then she told her a curious legend; of how Boabdil, the Moorish king, had once a string of pearls like those she had asked the father for, and how, after the Spaniards had overcome the Moors in a great battle, he intrusted these lustrous gems, with much other treasure, to one of his servants to be hidden upon a distant island, but, by some strange misfortune, as they neared the landing, the Moor dropped the pearls into the sea.
Now this Moor was an enchanter, and, because he could not recover the lost treasure, he cast a spell upon it, that would bring death to the first, who should touch the pearls, perpetual servitude to the second, and riches, honor, beauty, and love to the third, who should retain them in the family forever.
"No matter how many years should elapse, this would surely come to pass," and again the old duenna laughed that strange, unpleasant laugh. Lenore, trembling with fright, sobbed convulsively, "Oh! the dear papa! the dear papa! he will die! I will call mamma, she will send a messenger for him, he shall not touch the horrid pearls," and she started up to go, but the duenna caught her. "Silly child," she said, "I will tell you no more pretty stories, that was only a legend, and the pearls were not real and true, but only dream pearls, just to please my pretty child." She soothed Lenore and laughed again, till her tears were dried, and she joined to the shrill voice of the weird duenna, the merry, childish laugh of trusting innocence. The days of absence passed by in dreamy quietude at the Buenna Vineyard.
The wife was very lonely, for no one could supply the place of the loved husband in her heart. The pretty, dark-eyed Lenore missed the dear papa sadly, but her time was much occupied by the master who taught her music, French, and English. Spanish she learned from the duenna, who in this language was quite a scholar.
Everywhere she followed the young Lenore, and, in her varied moods, treated her with a curious combination of love and selfishness, tenderness and severity, but, through all, maintaining her unbounded influence over her charge.
Full of wonderful legends of the Moors of old, she fostered a love of the marvelous in the mind of the maiden, till often she would waken in the darkness of the midnight, from fearful dreams trembling of superstitious dread. One morning early, she ran into her mother's chamber and woke her kissing her eyes and cheek.
"Oh mamma" she said, "do wake up, I have had such a beautiful dream about Boabdil's pearls, pure and white as snow, and large and glistening as the dew-drops. Some one from Spain brought them to me, so noble and handsome, mamma, that I could not help loving him dearly, and I was so happy." "But, Lenore," said the mother, "where was the dear papa." "Oh, mamma," said Lenore, "I did not see him, he was not there."
A strange terror filled her heart, and looked out from her startled eyes, and she buried her head in the pillow and wept piteously.