Agueda also turned to Eduardo Juan. "Well! well!" she exclaimed
impatiently, "were the wood ashes mixed, then, with the cacao seeds?"
Eduardo Juan shifted from one foot to the other, looked away at the
river, and said, "Ah did not ogsarve."
"You did not observe. Oh, dear! oh, dear! Why can you never do as the
Señor tells you? What will become of the plantation if you do not obey
what the Señor tells you?"
"Seño' ain' say nuttin'," said Eduardo Juan, with a sly smile.
Agueda looked away. "I am not speaking of the Señor. I mean the Señor
Adan," said she. "You know that he has charge of all; that he had charge
long before--come, then! let us go."
As Agueda descended the steps of the veranda, she heard Beltran's voice
calling to her. She turned and looked back. Don Beltran was standing in
the open door of the salon. His pleasant smile seemed to say that he had
just been indulging in agreeable words, agreeable thoughts.
"Agueda," said Beltran, "bring my mother's cross here, will you? I want
to show it to my cousin."
Agueda turned and came slowly up the steps again. She went at once to
her own room and opened the drawer where the diamonds lay in their
ancient case of velvet and leather. The key which opened this drawer
hung with the household bunch at her waist. The drawer had not been
opened for some time, and the key grated rustily in the lock. Agueda
opened the drawer, took the familiar thing in her hand, and returning
along the veranda, handed it to Beltran. Then she ran quickly down the
steps to join the waiting peons. But Felisa's appreciative scream as the
case was opened reached her, as well as the words which followed.
"And you let that girl take charge of such a magnificent thing as that!
Why, cousin, it must mean a fortune."
"Who? Agueda?" said Beltran. "I would trust Agueda with all that I
possess. Agueda knew my mother. She was here in my mother's time."
The motherly instinct, which is in the ascendant with most women, arose
within the heart of Agueda.
"Come, Palandrez, come, Eduardo Juan," said she. They could hardly keep
pace with her. If there was no one else to work for him while he dallied
with his pretty cousin, she would see that his interests did not suffer.
"Why, then, do you not go up there in the cool of the evening,
Palandrez? You could get an hour's work done easily after the sun goes
behind the little rancho hill."
"It is scairt up deyah," said Palandrez. "De ghos' ob de ole Señora waak
an' he waak. Ain' no one offer deyah suvvices up on de hill when it git
'long 'bout daak."
Agueda went swiftly toward the hill patch, the peons sulkily following
her. They did not wish to obey, but they did not dare to rebel. Arrived
at her destination, she turned to Pablo, who was in advance of Eduardo
Juan.
"Where, then, is the pail of seed, Pablo?"
Pablo, without answer, began to send his eyes roaming over and across
the field. Eduardo Juan, preferring to think that it was no business of
his, leaned against a tree-trunk and let his eyes rest on the ground at
his feet. As these two broken reeds seemed of no practical use, Agueda
began to skirt the field, and soon she came upon the pail, hidden behind
a stump.
"Here it is, Eduardo Juan," she called. "Begin to dig your holes, you
and Pablo, and I will--_oh!_" This despairing exclamation closed the
sentence, and ended all hope of work for the day. Agueda saw, as she
spoke, that the pail swarmed with ants. She pushed her stick down among
the shiny brown seed, and discovered no preventive in the form of the
necessary wood ashes. The seed was spoiled.
"It is no use, Pablo," she said. "Come and see these ants, you that take
no interest in the good of the Señor." She turned and walked dejectedly
down the hill. Pablo turned to Eduardo Juan.
He laughed under his breath.
"De Seño' taike no intrus' in hees own good."
"Seed come from Palmacristi; mighty hard git seed dis time o' yeah,"
answered Eduardo Juan, with a hopeful chuckle. If no more seed were to
be had, then no more planting could be done.
Later in the evening, as Agueda went toward the kitchen, she passed by
Felisa's doorway. A glimpse was forced upon her of the interior of the
pretty room and its occupant. Felisa was seated before the mirror. She
had donned a gown the like of which Agueda had never seen. The waist did
not come all the way up to the throat, but was cut out in a sort of
hollow, before and behind, for Agueda saw the shoulders which were
toward her, quite bare of covering, and in the mirror she caught the
reflection of maidenly charms which in her small world were not a part
of daily exhibit. Agueda stopped suddenly.
"Oh, Señorita!" she exclaimed under her breath. "Does the Señorita know
that her door is open? Let me close it, and the shutter on the other
side. I will run round there in a minute. Some one might see the
Señorita; people may be passing along the veranda at any moment."
Felisa gave a shrill and merry laugh.
"People might see! Why, my good girl, don't you know that is just why we
wear such gowns, that people may see? Come and fasten this thing. Isn't
it lovely against my neck?"
Agueda could not but admit to her secret soul that it was lovely
against Felisa's neck. But she coloured as she entered and closed the
door carefully behind her. She had seen nothing like this, except in
those abandoned picture papers that came sometimes from the States, or
from France, to Don Beltran, and then, as often as not, she hid them
that she might not see him looking at them. She could not bear to have
him look at them. She felt--
"Open the door, that's a good girl! There! Are you sure that the catch
is secure? These beauties were my aunt's. See how they become me. I
would not lose them for the world. Oh! had I only had them before."
"Are--are--they--has the Señor given them perhaps--to--to--"
"Well, not exactly, Agueda, good girl; but some day, who knows--there!"
Felisa made a pirouette and sank in a low curtsey on the bare floor,
showing just the point of a pink satin toe. "See how they glitter, even
in the light of these candles. Imagine them in a ball-room--Agueda, and
me in them! Now I must go and show my cousin. Open the door. Do you not
hear--open the--"
"The Señorita is never going to show herself to the Señor in such a gown
as that! What will the Señor say? The Señorita will never--"
But Felisa had pushed past Agueda, and was half-way down the veranda.
The thoughts that flashed through Agueda's mind were natural ones. She
had honestly done her best to keep the Señorita from disgracing herself
in the Señor's eyes, but she would have her way. She had gone to her own
destruction. There was a quickening of Agueda's pulses. Ah! Now he would
turn to her again. He could not bear any sign of immodesty in a woman.
He had often said to Agueda that that was her chief charm, her modesty.
He had called her "Little Prude," and laughed when she blushed. Was it
to be wondered at that Agueda rejoiced at Felisa's coming defeat, at her
imminent discomfiture, the moment that Beltran should see her? She stood
in the doorway of Felisa's room, watching the fairy-like figure as it
lightly danced like a will-o'-the-wisp down the dark veranda's length,
flashing out like a firefly as it passed an opening where there was a
light within, going out in the darkness between the doors, still keeping
up its resemblance to the _ignis fatuus_.
Before Felisa reached the salon Beltran came out to discover why his
charmer had absented herself for so long a time. Agueda caught the look
in his eyes, as he stood, almost aghast at the meretricious loveliness
of the little creature before him. He gazed and gazed at her. Was it in
disgust? Alas! no. Poor Agueda! Rapture shone from his eyes. He opened
his arms. But Felisa eluded him and danced round the corner of the
veranda.
"You pretty thing! You pretty, you lovely, you adorable thing!" she
heard Beltran exclaim, as utterly fascinated, he followed the small
siren in her tantalizing flight.