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The Mystery Of The Hacienda.
by
The figure of a young girl, which he had not before noticed, was slowly moving down the half-shadowed lane made by the two walls of the garden and the corral. Cecily! Perhaps she had come out to meet him. He spurred forward; but, as he came nearer, he saw that the figure and its attire were surely not hers. He reined up again abruptly, mortified at his disappointment, and a little ashamed lest he should have seemed to have been following an evident stranger. He vaguely remembered, too, that there was a trail to the high road, through a little swale clothed with myrtle and thorn bush which he had just passed, and that she was probably one of his reserved and secluded neighbors–indeed, her dress, in that uncertain light, looked half Spanish. This was more confusing, since his rashness might have been taken for an attempt to force an acquaintance. He wheeled and galloped towards the front of the casa as the figure disappeared at the angle of the wall.
“I don’t suppose you ever see any of our neighbors?” said Dick to his aunt casually.
“I really can’t say,” returned the lady with quiet equanimity. “There were some extraordinary-looking foreigners on the road to San Gregorio yesterday. Manuel, who was driving me, may have known who they were–he is a kind of Indian Papist himself, you know–but I didn’t. They might have been relations of his, for all I know.”
At any other time Dick would have been amused at this serene relegation of the lofty Estudillos and Peraltas to the caste of the Indian convert, but he was worried to think that perhaps Cecily was really being bored by the absence of neighbors. After dinner, when they sought the rose garden, he dropped upon the little lichen-scarred stone bench by her side. It was still warm from the sun; the hot musk of the roses filled the air; the whole garden, shielded from the cool evening trade winds by its high walls, still kept the glowing memory of the afternoon sunshine. Aunt Viney, with her garden basket on her arm, moved ghost-like among the distant bushes.
“I hope you are not getting bored here?” he said, after a slight inconsequent pause.
“Does that mean that YOU are?” she returned, raising her mischievous eyes to his.
“No; but I thought you might find it lonely, without neighbors.”
“I stayed in to-day,” she said, femininely replying to the unasked question, “because I fancied Aunt Viney might think it selfish of me to leave her alone so much.”
“But YOU are not lonely?”
Certainly not! The young lady was delighted with the whole place, with the quaint old garden, the mysterious corridors, the restful quiet of everything, the picture of dear Aunt Viney–who was just the sweetest soul in the world–moving about like the genius of the casa. It was such a change to all her ideas, she would never forget it. It was so thoughtful of him, Dick, to have given them all that pleasure.
“And the rides,” continued Dick, with the untactful pertinacity of the average man at such moments–“you are not tired of THEM?”
No; she thought them lovely. Such freedom and freshness in the exercise; so different from riding in the city or at watering-places, where it was one-half show, and one was always thinking of one’s habit or one’s self. One quite forgot one’s self on that lovely plain–with everything so far away, and only the mountains to look at in the distance. Nevertheless she did not lift her eyes from the point of the little slipper which had strayed beyond her skirt.
Dick was relieved, but not voluble; he could only admiringly follow the curves of her pretty arms and hands, clasped lightly in her lap, down to the point of the little slipper. But even that charming vanishing point was presently withdrawn–possibly through some instinct–for the young lady had apparently not raised her eyes.
“I’m so glad you like it,” said Dick earnestly, yet with a nervous hesitation that made his speech seem artificial to his own ears. “You see I–that is–I had an idea that you might like an occasional change of company. It’s a great pity we’re not on speaking terms with one of these Spanish families. Some of the men, you know, are really fine fellows, with an old-world courtesy that is very charming.”