Blanch stood before a long mirror that adorned one of the walls of her
room, trying the effect of a new tea-gown.
The mirror was an ancient piece of furniture consisting of a faded gilt
frame and six separate rows of large, unevenly fitting squares of glass;
the style that was in vogue two centuries ago. As she regarded herself
in it, she saw herself reflected in sections, probably with much the
same effect as Marie Antoinette saw her reflection at Versailles.
"Coronada must have brought this mirror with him on his first
expedition," she remarked to Bessie who lounged on the sofa on the
opposite side of the room amid a heap of florid cushions. "I feel as
though I had a personal grudge against that man," she continued, vainly
endeavoring to catch an unbroken outline of herself in the glass.
"It's stunning, Blanch!" broke in Bessie from the sofa. "What is it--a
Worth?"
"No--a Doucet. Isn't it absurd that I should array myself in these
gorgeous gowns to compete with that Indian in her few flimsy calicoes
and silks? The contrast is out of all proportion. It's the sublime and
the ridiculous. And yet she looks well in anything! Dress her in rags
and she is picturesque; robe her in silks and she is fascinating."
"That's just what I can't understand," said Bessie. "We couldn't wear
her clothes, but she can wear ours. Why is it?"
"It's quite simple. We have been handicapped from the start because we
have been forced to compete with them on their own ground. They are
perfectly natural; they have nothing and aspire to nothing, while we are
wholly artificial--have everything and aspire to more."
"Why, to hear you, one would think that Jack was talking!" exclaimed
Bessie in genuine surprise.
"Oh! I don't pretend to agree with his views, but as regards us, he's
about right. I was never able to see ourselves as some others see us
until we came here. And I have come to the conclusion that our views of
life are about as distorted as the cracked reflection of myself in the
mirror yonder. We have unconsciously lived a life antagonistic to nature
and consequently find ourselves ridiculous in our simplest endeavors to
be natural. Of course," she added, "they would appear the same if things
were reversed and we had them on our ground.
"With us," she went on, "marriage is more a game of intrigue than love;
here it is purely one of sentiment. Aside from my intrinsic value, what
weapon have I to employ against this Indian woman? The things which
count for so much with us, fall flat here.
"Why, I'm not even in a position to make Jack jealous! If I were at
home, I would have a dozen men at my feet and as many more as I wished
to play off against him, not to mention the thousand opportunities for
neglect. In fact, all the weapons which we women are so fond of
employing against men. Whereas, here I am at the feet of my Lord
Jack--his indifference is insufferable! Oh! I'll pay him back for this!"
she cried, pale with anger.
"Men are brutes--all of them!" remarked Bessie laconically, rising to a
sitting posture on the sofa.
"I hate him--hate him!" continued Blanch in a fresh paroxysm of passion.
"To think that he of all men should have been the one chosen to show me
myself--the only one of us who was strong enough to break away! Why was
I not able to hold him? Why am I not able to come to him now? There is
something wrong somewhere. We seem to have lost our grip on things. I
can't understand it!" Just then the old, gilt French clock on the white
marble mantelpiece slowly chimed the hour of five. The sound of the
clock caused Blanch to pause. "Five o'clock," she said, calming herself.
"Don Felipe will be waiting for us in the garden."
"That's so," answered Bessie, rising from the sofa and crossing the room
to the window which looked out over the _patio_ into the garden. "There
he is now, pacing back and forth beneath the trees. What a restless man
he is!"
"After the first cup, you might disappear, Bess," said Blanch. "I want
to try to find out if he still cares for that Indian?"
"That was the most romantic thing I ever heard!" exclaimed Bessie.
"I wonder he ever returned," answered Blanch, opening the door and
leading the way across the _patio_ in the direction of the garden. The
tinkle of a guitar attracted their attention to a group of _peons_ and
women squatted on their heels on one side of the court, in the shade of
the arcades, smoking and chatting. A little beyond them, in the shadow
of the doorway, stood the major-domo, Juan Ramon and the pretty
housekeeper, Rosita.
"_Dios!_ but she is _magnifico_--the tall one!" whispered Juan to Rosita
as the girls passed them, nodding and smiling in response to Juan's deep
salutation and Rosita's courtesy.
"And the little one," said Rosita in turn. "Is she not like a half-blown
pink rose?"
"Aye! 'tis a feast for the eyes to look at them!" answered Juan. "There
has not been so much life in the place since the old days when the
Master was alive."
"If Don Felipe doesn't marry one of them he's a fool," added Rosita.
"That's just what I have been saying to myself," returned Juan.
"What else can he be doing here if he doesn't intend to take one of them
back to his _hacienda_ with him?" continued Rosita. "I've noticed that
he and the tall one spend much time together."
"Aye!" ejaculated Juan. "It must be lonely at the old _rancho_ without a
woman to keep him company."
"The tall Señorita would be just the one for the place!" exclaimed
Rosita enthusiastically.
"Rosita _mia_," began Juan confidentially after a short silence, during
which his gaze rested pensively on the retreating figures of the girls,
"I've just been thinking that there is no happiness for a man, still
less for a woman, in a single life. What say you, Rosita _mia_," he went
on, patting her familiarly on the cheek.
"Juan Ramon," interrupted Rosita with an angry flush, "if you don't want
to get your face slapped, you had better behave like a _Caballero_!"
"_Caramba!_ what a little spitfire!" returned Juan, pulling the end of
his thin mustache, yet not in the least disconcerted by her show of
temper. "But supposing, my pearl of a housekeeper, that I bought a neat
little _rancheria_--do you know of any one who might care to look after
it?"
"Bah! First pay your gambling debts, Juan Ramon. There will then be time
enough to look for some one who will allow herself to be beaten on
feast-days when you have drunk more _pulque_ than is good for you. But
_Dios!_ why am I wasting words with you? The Señoritas will begin to
wonder what has become of their chocolate and _tortillas_ if I don't
hurry."
"Ungrateful woman," responded Juan, assuming an injured tone. "Would you
leave me without a kiss?"
"Holy Mother! what has come over you, Juan Ramon--has the sunshine gone
to your head? A kiss, indeed!" and she tossed her head. "Go to
Petronita, the cook! She is old; doubtless she will give you a plenty!"
and laughing, she hurried into the dining-room in search of a tray with
which to serve the ladies. The mere mention of the ancient, withered
Petronita, with the parchment-like face, caused Juan's mouth to pucker
as though he had bitten into an unripe persimmon.
"_Diablos!_ if the luck would only change!" he muttered. "Rosita would
be the very one--" The sound of light footsteps and the tinkle of spurs
caused Juan to turn.
"Ah! _buenas dias_, Señorita!" he exclaimed, lifting his hat and bowing
before Chiquita, who had entered the _patio_ from the opposite side of
the house. Her riding-habit, her boots and gloves and gray felt hat
beneath which were twisted her thick braids of hair, were covered with
thin white particles of dust.
"Where is your mistress, Doña Fernandez, Juan?" she asked.
"I will call her, Señorita," answered Juan, replacing his hat on his
head and starting for the hallway.
"Never mind, Juan," called Chiquita, catching sight of Blanch and Bessie
in the distance. "I will first speak with the Señoritas," and she turned
toward the garden.
Juan's beady black eyes followed her tall figure as she moved toward the
girls. Ever since the arrival of the Americans there had been much
discussion in the household as to which was the more beautiful, Blanch
or Chiquita. The Señora's dislike for the latter was well known, but in
spite of this prejudice, opinion was pretty evenly divided concerning
the merits of the two. It was a vexing question, and the opportunity of
comparing the two women as they met in the garden was too tempting to
be missed. So, with one end of his _zerape_ slung carelessly over his
shoulder, Juan strolled casually past the little group of women in the
direction of the corrals, where he could observe them at his leisure
from the recesses of the garden without attracting attention.
Notwithstanding the fact that the dark woman was at a disadvantage in
her dust-covered riding-habit, he could not for the life of him tell
which was the more beautiful of the two as he passed behind a thicket of
lilac bushes, and seated himself on a rustic bench and began rolling a
_cigarillo_ between his long slim fingers.
Juan was a born gambler, and like all of his tribe, was usually in want
of money. To-day he needed it more than ever, for that very morning his
mistress had taunted him and threatened to leave him if he did not pay
for the new dresses she had recently purchased, and for which she was
now being dunned by her creditors. Never had he had such a run of bad
luck. During the great week of the _Fiesta_ he had tried everything from
roulette to monte, but fortune's wheel had turned steadily against him.
It was truly the devil's own luck and no mistake. If only the luck would
turn, he would quit the game of chance forever--cast off the ungrateful
Dolores, and.... He drew a much-worn pack of cards from his breast
pocket and began cutting them with a dexterity acquired through long
years of practice.
Like all of his race, and the majority of mankind for that matter, he
was intensely superstitious. Three times in succession he cut and dealt
the cards, and three times the ace of hearts, the luckiest card in the
pack, turned face upwards on the bench.
"_Santa Maria!_ 'tis a miracle--the luck has changed at last!" he
muttered excitedly, as with dilated eyes and trembling hands he gathered
up the cards and replaced them carefully in his pocket. His dream of the
_hacienda_ and the fair Rosita might yet come true. But how? The cards
were too fickle to trust for long. Just then the rich, deep voice of
Chiquita fell upon his ears. Without knowing why, yet intuitively he
seemed to connect her with the turn in his fortune--and it set him
thinking.
Ever since the _Fiesta_, curiosity had prompted him to learn something
concerning Chiquita's motive for dancing; and whenever the opportunity
presented itself, he had shadowed her. His patience was soon rewarded by
learning that she made frequent visits to the Indian _pueblo_, Onava,
often riding there in the late evening under cover of the dusk. On one
occasion he saw an Indian ride forth from the village and meet her on
the plain where she awaited him. They engaged in long and earnest
conversation, at the end of which he fancied he saw Chiquita draw nearer
to her companion and hand him something, and then the darkness shut them
from view. He did not dare follow her farther or enter the village, for
fear of attracting suspicion to himself; but surely this was a clew to
something, to the mystery, perhaps.
At this juncture, Juan rolled a fresh _cigarillo_ as he listened to the
voices of the women, his eyes resting on Captain Forest's horse in the
corral beyond the garden. The animal fascinated him; never had he laid
eyes on such a superb creature. Each day he visited the corral for a
look at him, and each time the Chestnut would rush at him with ears laid
flat on his neck and mouth wide open, displaying his formidable teeth.
"_Caramba!_ what an animal to stock a _rancho_ with, if only--" Juan
sighed, and for some moments roundly cursed the past run of cards. The
afternoon sun was pleasantly warm, and the shade sleep inviting. He
threw the burnt end of his _cigarillo_ on the ground, and, drawing up
his feet, stretched himself at full length on the bench--the upper half
of his fox-like face appearing just above the edge of his _zerape_.
_Dios!_ was it not better to sleep and even dream bad dreams, than
waking, meditate upon the misfortunes of life?