XII.

We sat in the sala the next evening, awaiting the return of the prodigal and his deliverer.  The night was cool, and the doors were closed; coals burned in a roof-tile.  The room, unlike most Californian salas, boasted a carpet, and the furniture was covered with green rep, instead of the usual black horse-hair.

Don Guillermo patted the table gently with his open palm, accompanying the tinkle of Prudencia’s guitar and her light monotonous voice.  She sat on the edge of a chair, her solemn eyes fixed on a painting of Reinaldo which hung on the wall.  Dona Trinidad was sewing as usual, and dressed as simply as if she looked to her daughter to maintain the state of the Iturbi y Moncadas.  Above a black silk skirt she wore a black shawl, one end thrown over her shoulder.  About her head was a close black silk turban, concealing, with the exception of two soft gray locks on either side of her face, what little hair she may still have possessed.  Her white face was delicately cut:  the lines of time indicated spiritual sweetness rather than strength.

Chonita roved between the sala and an adjoining room where four Indian girls embroidered the yellow poppies on the white satin.  I was reading one of her books,—­the “Vicar of Wakefield.”

“Wilt thou be glad to see Reinaldo, my Prudencia?” asked Don Guillermo, as the song finished.

“Ay!” and the girl blushed.

“Thou wouldst make a good wife for Reinaldo, and it is well that he marry.  It is true that he has a gay spirit and loves company, but you shall live here in this house, and if he is not a devoted husband he shall have no money to spend.  It is time he became a married man and learned that life was not made for dancing and flirting; then, too, would his restless spirit get him into fewer broils.  I have heard him speak twice of no other woman, excepting Valencia Menendez, and I would not have her for a daughter; and I think he loves thee.”

“Sure!” said Dona Trinidad.

“That is love, I suppose,” said Chonita, leaning back in her chair and forgetting the poppies.  “With her a placid contented hope, with him a calm preference for a malleable woman.  If he left her for another she would cry for a week, then serenely marry whom my father bade her, and forget Reinaldo in the donas of the bridegroom.  The birds do almost as well.”

Don Guillermo smiled indulgently.  Prudencia did not know whether to cry or not.  Dona Trinidad, who never thought of replying to her daughter, said,—­

“Chonita mia, Liseta and Tomaso wish to marry, and thy father will give them the little house by the creek.”

“Yes, mamacita?” said Chonita, absently:  she felt no interest in the loves of the Indians.

“We have a new Father in the Mission,” continued her mother, remembering that she had not acquainted her daughter with all the important events of her absence.  “And Don Rafael Guzman’s son was drafted.  That was a judgment for not marrying when his father bade him.  For that I shall be glad to have Reinaldo marry.  I would not have him go to the war to be killed.”