Don Joaquin was not yet recovered from his annoyance. As Sarella had
perceived, he could not easily condone the defective conduct of those
who, owing him obedience, refused to carry out a plan that he had long
been meditating. But he had been frightened by the picture she had
suggested of Divine judgment, and wondered if the hitches that had
occurred in the issue of the dispensation for his marriage had been a
hint of them--a threatening of what would happen if he opposed the
Heavenly Will concerning his daughter's vocation. It was chiefly because
the plan of her marriage had been deliberately adopted by himself, that
he was reluctant to abandon it. Her own plan of becoming a nun would, he
gradually came to see, suit him quite as well. And presently he became
aware that, financially, it would suit him even better. If she "entered
Religion," he would have to give her a dowry; but not, he imagined, a
large one, five thousand dollars or so, he guessed. Whereas, if she
married Gore, he would be expected to give her much more. Besides, her
marriage would very likely involve subsequent gifts and expenditure. It
would all come out of what he wished to save for the beloved son of whom
he was always thinking. As a nun, too, Mariquita would be largely
engaged in praying for the soul of her mother, and for his own soul and
Sarella's and her brother's.
By the time he and Mariquita met he had grasped all these advantages,
and, though aloof and disapproving in his manner, he did not attack her.
As it pleased him to admire in Sarella a delightful shrewdness in
affairs, he gave her credit for favoring Mariquita's plan because it
would leave more money for her own children. In this he paid her an
undeserved compliment, for Sarella did not know in the least that
Mariquita would receive less of her father's money if she became a nun
than if she married Mr. Gore. She had not thought of it, being much of
opinion that Gore would ask for nothing in the way of dowry and that Don
Joaquin would give nothing without much asking.
Don Joaquin was considerably taken aback to learn that Mariquita had
formed no definite plans yet as to her "entering Religion." He had
promptly decided that, of course, she would go back to Loretto as a nun,
and he was proportionally surprised to find that she had no such idea.
This surprise he expressed, almost in dudgeon, to Sarella. He appeared
to consider himself quite ill-used by such vagueness; if young women
wanted to be nuns it behooved them to know exactly where they meant to
go, and what religious work they felt called to undertake.
"If I were you," Sarella told him, after some hasty consideration, "I
would let her go to Loretto--on a visit. You will find she makes up her
mind quicker there--with nothing to distract her. Sister Aquinas talks
of Retreats--Mariquita could make one."
"Who's to do the work here while she's away?" grumbled Don Joaquin.
"It will have to be done when she's gone for good. We may just as well
think it out."
Sarella was quite resolved that she would never be the slave Mariquita
had been, and did not mind having the struggle, if there was to be one,
now.
"Whether Mariquita married or became a nun," she went on, "she would be
gone from here. Her place would have to be supplied--more than supplied,
for a young wife like me could not do nearly so much work. I should have
things to do an unmarried girl has not, and be unfit for much work. I am
sure you understand that. Sister Aquinas knows two sisters, very
respectable and trustworthy, steady, and not too young. I meant to speak
to you about them. They would suit us as well. They will not separate,
and for that matter, we can't do with less than two."
Sarella's great object was to open the matter; she intended to succeed
but did not count on instant success, or success without a struggle. Don
Joaquin had to be familiarized with a scheme some time before he would
adopt it. He rebelled at first and for that rebellion she punished him.
"Mariquita's position was wrong," she told him boldly. "It tended to
make her unlike other girls and give her unusual ideas. She was tied by
the leg here, by too much work, and her only rest or recreation was
solitary thinking. If she had been taken about and met her equals she
would have been like other girls, I expect. She was a slave and sought
her freedom in the skies."
Don Joaquin enjoyed this philippic very little; perhaps he only partly
understood it, but he did understand that Sarella thought Mariquita had
been put upon and did not intend being put upon herself. He would have
been much less influenced if he had thought of Sarella as specially
devoted to his daughter or blindly fond of her, but he had always
believed that there was but a cool sympathy between the two girls, and
that Sarella would have found fault with Mariquita quite willingly if
there had been fault to find.
"You have taken up the cudgels," he said sourly, "very strongly for
Mariquita of late."
"As time goes on I naturally feel able to speak more plainly than I
could when I first came here. I was only your guest. It is different 'of
late.' And I am 'taking up the cudgels' for myself more than for
Mariquita."
"Oh, I quite see that," he retorted with a savage grin.
Sarella determined to hit back, and she was by no means restrained by
scruples as to "hitting below the belt."
"Fortunately for her," she said, "Mariquita has splendid health, and
work did not kill her. She has the strength of a horse. Her mother did
not leave it to her. I have always heard in the family that Aunt
Margaret was delicate, physically unfit for hard work. Men do not notice
those things. She died too young, and might have lived much longer if
she had not overtaxed her strength. She ought to have been prevented
from doing so much work. You were not too poor to have allowed her
plenty of help--and you are much better off now."
Don Joaquin almost jumped with horror; he had really adored his wife,
and now he was being flatly and relentlessly accused of having perhaps
shortened her life by lack of consideration for her. And was it true? He
could not help remembering much to support the accusation. She had been
a woman of feeble health and feeble temper; her singular beauty of
feature and coloring had been in every eye but Joaquin's own, marred by
an expression of discontent and complaining, though she had been too
much in awe of her masterful husband to set out her grievances to him;
he guessed now that she must have written grumbling letters to her
relations far away in the East. The man was no monster of cruelty; he
was merely stingy and money-loving, hard-natured, and without
imagination. Possessed of iron health himself, he had never conceived
that the sort of work his Indian mother had submissively performed could
be beyond the strength of his wife. It was true that he was much richer
now than he had been when he married, and Sarella had herself
accustomed him to the idea of greater expenditure, however dexterously
he might have done his best to neutralize those spendings. He was more
obstinately set upon marrying her than ever, because he had for a long
time now decided upon the marriage; he was nervously afraid of her
drawing back if he didn't yield to her wishes, the utterance of which he
took to be a sort of ultimatum.
"Are these two women Catholics?" he demanded, feeling sure that Sister
Aquinas would only recommend such; "I will not have Protestant servants
in the house."
"They are excellent Catholics," Sarella assured him, "educated in the
convent."
"Then I will consider the plan. You can ask Sister Aquinas about the
conditions--wages, and so forth."
"What a pity," thought Sarella, when the interview had ended, "that
Mariquita never knew how to manage him."