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Dona Pomposa crossed her hands on her stomach and twirled her thumbs. A red spot was in each coffee-coloured cheek, and the mole in her scanty eyebrow jerked ominously. Her lips were set in a taut line, and her angry little eyes were fixed upon a girl who sat by the window strumming a guitar, her chin raised with an air of placid impertinence. “Thou wilt stop this nonsense and cast no more glances at Juan Tornel!” commanded Doña Pomposa. “Thou little brat! Dost thou think that I am one to let my daughter marry before she can hem? Thank God we have more sense than our mothers! No child of mine shall marry at fifteen. Now listen—thou shalt be locked in a dark room if I am kept awake again by that hobo serenading at thy window. To-morrow, when thou goest to church, take care that thou throwest him no glance. Dios de mi alma! I am worn out! Three nights have I been awakened by that tw-a-n-g, tw-a-n-g.” “You need not be afraid,” said her daughter, digging her little heel into the floor. “I shall not fall in love. I have no faith in men.” Her mother laughed outright in spite of her anger. “Indeed, my Eulogia! Thou art very wise. And why, pray, hast thou no faith in men?” Eulogia tossed the soft black braid from her shoulder, and fixed her keen roguish eyes on the old lady’s face. “Because I have read all the novels of the Señor Dumas, and I well know all those men he makes. And they never speak the truth to women; always they are selfish, and think only of their own pleasure. If the women suffer, they do not care; they do not love the women—only themselves. So I am not going to be fooled by the men. I shall enjoy life, but I shall think of myself, not of the men.” Her mother gazed at her in speechless amazement. She never had read a book in her life, and had not thought of locking from her daughter the few volumes her dead husband had collected. Then she gasped with consternation. “Por Dios, señorita, a fine woman thou wilt make of thyself with such ideas! a nice wife and mother—when the time comes. What does Padro Flores say to that, I should like to know? It is very strange that he has let you read those books.” “I have never told him,” said Eulogia, indifferently. “What!” screamed her mother. “You never told at confession?” “No, I never did. It was none of his business what I read. Reading is no sin. I confessed all—” “Mother of God!” cried Doña Pomposa, and she rushed at Eulogia with uplifted hand; but her nimble daughter dived under her arm with a provoking laugh, and ran out of the room. That night Eulogia pushed aside the white curtain of her window and looked out. The beautiful bare hills encircling San Luis Obispo were black in the silvered night, but the moon made the town light as day. The owls were hooting on the roof of the mission; Eulogia could see them flap their wings. A few Indians were still moving among the dark huts outside the walls, and within, the padre walked among his olive trees. Beyond the walls the town was still awake. Once a horseman dashed down the street, and Eulogia wondered if murder had been done in the mountains; the bandits were thick in their fastnesses. She did wish she could see one. Then she glanced eagerly down the road beneath her window. In spite of the wisdom she had accepted from the French romanticist, her fancy was just a little touched by Juan Tornel. His black flashing eyes could look so tender, and he rode so beautifully. She twitched the curtain into place and ran across the room, her feet pattering on the bare floor, jumped into her little iron bed, and drew the dainty sheet to her throat. A ladder had fallen heavily against the side of the house. She heard an agile form ascend and seat itself on the deep window-sill. Then the guitar vibrated under the touch of master fingers, and a rich sweet tenor sang to her:— EL CORAZON “El corazon del amor palpita, “Negro tienes el cabello, Talle lineas hermosas, Mano blanca, pie precioso, No hay que decir en ti:—Tu eres la mas hermosa, Tu eres la luz del dia, Tu eres la prenda mía, Tu me harás morir. “Que importa que noche
y dia, Eulogia lay as quiet as a mouse in the daytime, not daring to applaud, hoping fatigue had sent her mother to sleep. Her lover tuned his guitar and began another song, but she did not hear it; she was listening to footfalls in the garret above. With a presentiment of what was about to happen she sprang out of bed with a warning cry; but she was too late. There was a splash and rattle on the window-seat, a smothered curse, a quick descent, a triumphant laugh from above. Eulogia stamped her foot with rage. She cautiously raised the window and passed her hand along the outer sill. This time she beat the casement with both hands: they were covered with warm ashes. “Well, my daughter, have I not won the battle?” said a voice behind her, and Eulogia sat down on the window-seat and swung her feet in silent wrath. Doña Pomposa wore a rather short night-gown, and her feet were encased in a pair of her husband’s old boots. Her hair was twisted under a red silk kerchief, and again she crossed her hands on her stomach, but the thumbs upheld a candle. Eulogia giggled suddenly. “What dost thou laugh at, señorita? At the way I have served thy lover? Dost thou think he will come soon again?” “No, mamma, you have proved the famous hospitality of the Californians which the Americans are always talking about. You need have no more envy of the magnificence of Los Quervos.” And then she kicked her heels against the wall. “Oh, thou canst make sharp speeches, thou impertinent little brat; but Juan Tornel will serenade under thy window no more. Dios! the ashes must look well on his pretty mustachios. Go to bed. I will put thee to board in the convent to-morrow.” And she shuffled out of the room, her ample figure swinging from side to side like a large pendulum.
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