CHAPTER VII
It was Doña Benilda who at last turned the conversation into those channels which would lead up to the subject in which Mrs. Beltrán and Anita were so vitally interested. "You must hear Catalina's story, Prudencia," she said, "so romantic, so pathetic it is, and we so misled by false reports."
Doña Prudencia sat with folded hands and grave face looking thoughtfully into space. "It is well to hear both sides of a question," she responded at last. "I never believed half I heard, and since I have seen Catalina I believe still less. Will you tell us, Catalina, so much as you would like us to hear?"
"We have come, as perhaps you know," began Mrs. Beltrán, leaning eagerly forward, "to learn, if possible, something of Pepé, my son Pepé. Benilda thinks you may have heard something of him. Have you?"
"Not lately," returned Doña Prudencia after a pause.
"Tell her your story," urged Doña Benilda, and Mrs. Beltrán began a recital of her experiences. As she continued she was frequently interrupted by such fervent exclamations as "Ave Maria Sanctissima! Madre mia! Que lastima! Que desgracia!" accompanied by the sign of the cross made solemnly.
"So you perceive," Doña Benilda came in eagerly at the end of the story, "it was not as we were told by our Uncle Marcos, nor as Pilar would have us believe. The mother was not in the wrong; she did not desert her children; it was José Maria who deserted her."
"Pobrecita, pobrecita," murmured Doña Prudencia. "Poor José Maria, so impetuous, so mistaken. Ah, if he had but sent his son to me all would have been well, but alas, it was to our Uncle Marcos he was sent, the uncle of your husband, my poor Catalina. Had he but come to me all would have been different. He would have taken the place of my own child, my little boy who died. But it was this way: My father Candido and his brother Marcos had a bitter quarrel and did not speak for years. I do not know whether José Maria was aware of this, but he knew, I think, of my father's death, and probably realizing that Uncle Marcos was his nearest relative he considered him the proper person to take charge of the boy. But Uncle Marcos was a hard man, a hoarder of money, and his wife, a woman of the lower class, was equally parsimonious and unloving, so that the little child had not a happy life. They live in another village, but I saw him once at afiesta; he was pointed out to me as the son of my cousin, José Maria, but I did not think he resembled the father."
"Tell me," interrupted Mrs. Beltrán, palpitatingly, "is he still living?"
"That I do not know. He lived with his Uncle Marcos until he was about fifteen, at least he lived at his farm, for the uncle died and shortly after the boy went off, and I hear none has seen him since. Pilar will not allow his name to be mentioned, we are told, and is in a rage if one attempts to question."
"Why did you not tell me that he had been in the neighborhood?" Mrs. Beltrán turned reproachfully to Doña Benilda.
"Ah, my dear, because I could tell you so little. I thought best to let Prudencia give you such information as she had, and hoped she might have more to add to it since we talked the matter over. I did not want to raise your hopes but to have you disappointed."
"You have no idea where he went?" Mrs. Beltrán turned again to Doña Prudencia.
"We do not know whether he has left the country or has gone to some large city. We cannot tell.Ay de mi!It is so sad. I wish I had known of you; I wish I had known. I hoped when the boy was grown that we could be friends in spite of the bitter feeling which Uncle Marcos and Pilar always had for us all. There has been no intercourse between the families for years."
Such an expression of grief and hopelessness overspread her mother's face as Anita could not stand. She threw herself into her arms exclaiming. "We will not give up, mother; we will not. We know now that he was here, that he reached Spain, and that is more than we could gather anywhere else. It will not be more wonderful to find him than it was to find me. We have a clue. Do you realize that we have a clue?" She turned to her cousins and spoke in her broken Spanish. "You will help us; you all will help us to find him, I know."
Tears filled the eyes of the sympathetic company. "Ay, Ay," again sighed Doña Prudencia, "we will help all we can."
"I will make a vow to St. Joseph," declared Amparo, going over and taking Anita's hand. "If he will but find my Cousin Pepé, for a year I will wear no ornaments."
"And I," spoke up Rodrigo, "will not be outdone by my little Cousin Amparo. I will promise the good St. Joseph not to smoke cigarettes for a week."
"Ay!" cried his mother, in a surprised tone, "that is a great deal for you to promise, my son, a great sacrifice."
"Not too great if it mean a help to Cousin Catalina and her fair daughter," he responded gallantly. "I will make it a month, if necessary. Adios, cigarillos!" He blew a kiss from the tips of his fingers. "Adios, for a week, a month."
"Good children," approved Doña Prudencia, patting her daughter's hand. "For a littleniñaas fond as you are of ornaments it is a good spirit you show, you and Rodrigo also."
They sat volubly discussing plans, one offering this suggestion another that, till finally Doña Prudencia proposed that they should make an attempt to see this Pilar, the widow of their Uncle Marcos. "She may not be willing to give us any satisfaction; it would be like her to refuse to receive us, but it will do no harm to try," she said. "I have not crossed the threshold of her house since my uncle's death. I have felt always that it was she who stirred up discord, that it was she who kept my uncle from a reconciliation, that it was her harsh treatment which sent the boy away. I should forgive, perhaps, but my father was cheated out of much that was rightfully his, and it is hard not to bear resentment, yet I will go with you, my cousin."
"I could not ask so much of you," declared Mrs. Beltrán. "We will go alone if some one will direct us."
"Why should either thing be necessary?" spoke up Amparo. "To-morrow is thefiestaof Carmen. That Pilar will be there. She goes each year. Why can we not all go to thisfiesta?"
"A good thought, my child," cried Doña Prudencia. "Thy little head is a wise one. At afiestashe cannot well run away from us, and we can force an interview which elsewhere she might be able to avoid. We will do this thing. You understand that you are all to remain with us."
"But so many of us there are," protested Doña Benilda, but Doña Prudencia would listen to no excuse, and finally it was arranged to the satisfaction of all.
Amparo and Rodrigo took Anita off into the garden while the others sat in solemn conference. It was still light enough to see a glow upon the hills and lingering color in the sky. Amparo piloted her new cousin all over the place, showed her the orio where corn was stored, the pigeons so tame they would eat from her hand, the pet lamb and the prideful pig. She gatheredbrevasfor her from the fig tree, tucked aclavelin her dark hair and begged that she would allow herself to be dressed in Spanish costume for thefiesta. "I shall wear my peasant dress,aldeanawe call it, and you can wear mymanton de Manilawhich will be vastly becoming, do you not think so, Rodrigo?"
Of course Rodrigo must agree, and say that he would be the envy of all with two such lovely maidens to escort.
"And we must teach her thejota, Rodrigo," Amparo went on. "It will never do for her not to dance. I should be disconsolate to see her stand aside while others danced."
"There is no time like the present," returned Rodrigo.
So on the smoothly pavedpatiothey began the pretty dance which necessitated much snapping of fingers, agile twirlings and graceful steps. Anita, a willing pupil, did her best, was applauded and encouraged till she promised to join the dancers the following day.
"Rodrigo will be your partner and will see that you make no mistakes," Amparo reassured her by saying.
They danced till the little maid ran out to bid them "A comer" and then they went in. It was nine o'clock and the stars were shining.
The evening meal over Amparo insisted that Anita must choose themanton de Manilawhich she would use upon the morrow. "There are two, you see," she confided to her new cousin; "one is my mother's and one is mine." She produced the two shawls from a huge old chest in which they were carefully laid away in blue paper, and spread them out upon the bed. "Now choose," she said.
The pale yellow silk shawl, magnificently embroidered in colors fascinated Anita, but she decided on the other, a white one whose embroidery was quite as good and whose thick fringe was even longer. "You see I have not yet left off my mourning," she said, "and I think the white will look more appropriate. It would seem so very dashing to suddenly parade around in that lovely butterfly thing."
Amparo laughed partly at the broken Spanish, partly because she was happy. She displayed her own costume next; a short crimson skirt trimmed with bands of black velvet, a bodice of black velvet edged with a tinsel braid, a jacket which was worn either picturesquely disposed around the waist or in the usual manner, and a large silk handkerchief arranged in the manner peculiar to the country. Amparo put them all on that Anita might see how they were worn and added long earrings which almost reached her shoulders, and a handsome chain on which was suspended a medal of Our Lady of Carmen, "I shall wear my ornaments to-morrow to thefiesta," she told Anita, "and will begin my vow the next day. One should wear ornaments with this costume, you know." Then she made Anita put on the pretty peasant dress, which Anita was only too glad to do, and they enjoyed the dressing up, as girls do, laughing and chattering till bedtime.
"Such a wonderful day as it has been, madre," said Anita as she stood before a large mirror brushing her short locks, "and to-morrow it will be even more wonderful. I am going to be a real Spanish girl and can dance thejotawith Rodrigo. He is really very nice when you come to know him better, so kind and polite. I do not find him so queer looking either, now that I am used to him. He looks like his father, Amparo told me, and when I asked her why Cousin Benilda married such an odd-looking man she said he had everything but good looks and one could do without those. She is a very wise little person. I like her, and Cousin Prudencia is a dear. I thought her very cold and distant at first, didn't you?"
"Not so much so as I expected. She was exquisitely polite, but then Spaniards are so. They sometimes seem very proud and austere, but they have a frank sort of conceit which is really childish."
Anita laughed. "I have noticed that in Rodrigo and it is very amusing. I think, madre, it would have been fine if we could have discovered Pepé right here, for then we could have stayed on indefinitely."
"Do you like it so much, dear?"
"Oh, so much. I really love it. I believe I should like to live here. If we find Pepé shall we come back, do you think?"
"I don't know, darling. It is all so vague, so uncertain; who can tell? We shall, of course, go wherever our search leads us."
"I should not mind seeing other large cities in Spain, but I should like to come back, too. One can live very cheaply. Rodrigo pointed out nice little houses with gardens and all sorts of things which could be rented for forty dollars a year. Think of that. A maid who could cook well might be had for five or six dollars a month he told me. Imagine how wonderfully we could get along on our income."
Mrs. Beltrán smiled at the girl's enthusiasm. "You haven't seen the home of your mother's people," she said. "One can live cheaply in England, too, if one knows how."
"But this is so unique, so unlike any other place, and England is more like our own country."
"Don't you like your own country?"
"Oh, yes, I do, but variety is pleasant. Is it my own country, by the way? I was born in Mexico of English and Spanish parents, was educated in the United States, and here I am neither one thing nor another."
"When you marry you will be of the same nationality as your husband; that is the law."
"Oh, is it? How strange. Are you a Spaniard, then?"
"No, a widow has a right to resume her own nationality if she makes the claim within a year, so I became an English woman."
"I see. Madre, that curate, that Mr. Kirkby, has he ever married?"
"No, he is living in a town, a little village rather, not far from my native home. He has a very good living now, is rector and is greatly beloved by his people."
"How faithful some men are," sighed Anita. "I suppose he has never forgotten you."
"No, he has not forgotten me, but long ago we accepted our relationship upon the basis of a warm friendship. There is no romance there, Anita dear, so don't be building up one."
"Tell me something about your old home."
"It is the county of Sussex, as you know, a quiet little place. Our home was only a small cottage, but oh, what a garden we had! You would love the downs and in the spring you would see such flocks of sheep and lambs, primroses on all the banks, and hedgerows white with May. You would like the little river Arun, running so swiftly to the sea, and fine old Arundel Castle, the seat of the Duke of Norfolk. It has a wonderful park. Oh, yes, there is much to see in Sussex."
"You make me want to go there," declared Anita, going over and leaning on the back of her mother's chair. "When we find Pepé we three can go there and stay for a while. Have you many relatives, madre?"
"Only a very few, distant cousins, and an aunt who is now quite old—but they do not live in the town I spoke of; they live, some of them, in London, some of them in other places."
"Well, we shall have to go and hunt them up when we have found Pepé."
"Perhaps by that time you will be glad to go back to your old home."
"I might be glad under certain circumstances," replied Anita with a sigh. Then throwing something around her she went out on the balcony. The breeze coming from the sea and the nearer mountains, was full of sweetness caught from blossoming plants, from fresh-cut hay, from ripening fruits. The queer jangling voices of the night insects, the occasional lowing of a cow, the distant strumming of a guitar fell upon the girl's ears unnoticed. She clasped her hands and looked up at the calm stars. "Where are you, Terrence?" she whispered. "Would it make any difference to you if you could know that I am here? Have you forgotten? Where are you, Pepé? Send us a message on a wave of thought so we may instinctively find you. Terrence, my darling, would I not go back gladly if it might be with you?"
The night winds bore the whisper on to the murmuring leaves and blended it with the plaint of the sea, and at that moment a young man rose from his place in a Paris café, left his coffee untouched and went out into the glitter and rumble of the streets, hearing in fancy the unforgotten sound of a girl's voice, seeing only the warm light in her luminous eyes.