CHAPTER VIII
Rocket bombs were going up, drums were beating, tambourines jangling when Doña Prudencia's party arrived at the old church. Mass was over and those bearing the sacred image of Our Lady of Carmen were coming out of the church, keeping up their monotonous chant as they followed with rhythmic step the richly-robed priests. After the image-bearers came a procession of worshipers carrying tall lighted candles. The late arrivals stood to one side to allow the procession to pass.
"There she is," whispered Amparo, as a tall, black-robed woman with severe features, went by, "I knew she would be here. We must wait now till the service is over."
"She is a person of opinions, this Pilar," remarked Rodrigo. "You remember, Amparo, how she closed her house, would not have a light, nor open her doors to her friends when was thefiestaof San Roque."
"But why?" asked Anita in wonder.
"Because she does not like this poor San Roque; she prefers the Santa Magdelena. She is jealous for this favorite saint of hers, and does not like that there are superior attractions at thefiestaof San Roque."
"She is not alone in that," Amparo asserted. "There are others as foolish, who close their houses so that a twinkle of light appears at night, and who complain of the dancing and the merriment which keeps up so late."
"But what has poor San Roque done to her. I thought him a very amiable saint," said Anita.
"He is all that," returned Rodrigo. "It is but a prejudice, a jealous prejudice. You will see why this is so when you talk to this Pilar. She is one who will not yield an opinion once it is lodged in that narrow mind of hers."
They stood watching the procession wind around the church which had stood for ten centuries looking over the sea, had witnessed the union of Leon and Castile, the birth of the Cid, the expulsion of the Moors, its gray walls enshrining many a memory, viewing many such afiesta.
"This northern Spain does not change as other places," Rodrigo continued. "Here we keep the old customs. This religious dance which you behold is so old that it is called thedanza prima—the first dance. One cannot say where it first originated. There are others, too, which are handed down from generation to generation and are taught by one who has learned it from some ancient who, in turn, has been taught by his predecessor. Oh, yes, my cousin, Spain has a history. She is old, very old."
"You will like to look at the inside of the church, perhaps," said Amparo, "so ancient it is."
They went in to see a low, dark interior whose antique beams were blackened by time, whose gallery showed grotesque gargoyles, whose chancel displayed carven figures which might have found their origin in some heathen temple. It was almost deserted, though candles still blazed at the altars and a few kneeling figures bowed before certain favorite shrines. A small balcony, screened from the too prying eye, was reached from the old monastery and was set apart in the old days for the use of the nuns whose convent once was near.
Out again into the sparkling air to see the end of the ceremonies and then to find a nook among the rocks close to the sea where they could eat their picnic luncheon unmolested. Others from a distance were doing the same, and not far off sat Pilar with two friends.
"We will go and speak to her presently," whispered Doña Benilda to Mrs. Beltrán. "Perhaps it would be best that I go alone. What do you think, Prudencia?"
"It would be better," Doña Prudencia agreed. "Pilar is not an approachable person. Explanations should come before Catalina is made known to her, and it will be better that you should speak than that I should, for Pilar has no love for me."
Doña Benilda gathered her enveloping veil around her and walked over to where Pilar was seated. The others, looking on interestedly, observed that an animated conversation was taking place. Each gesticulated magnificently; voices rose excitedly.
"Are they quarreling?" whispered Anita to Rodrigo.
"No; they discuss, argue; that is all."
"It sounds as if they meant to tear each other to pieces," Anita turned to her mother.
"They are only excited, I think," Mrs. Beltrán decided.
At last, with a parting gesture, Doña Benilda closed the conference and returned saying: "It is as you prophesied, Prudencia; she is a difficult person. I had to use all my arguments to prove that our Cousin Catalina was not the wicked woman she supposed her to be. She now, though half-heartedly, consents to speak to her."
"I do not care how half-heartedly she looks upon me," said Mrs. Beltrán, rising, "if she but gives me news of my boy."
Anita, divided between a desire to hear what her uncle's widow had to tell, and a dread of encountering disagreeable remarks, hung back for a moment, but suddenly decided that she would not be a coward and ran forward to join her mother.
Silent and unyielding as the rock upon which she stood, Doña Pilar awaited them, greeted them distantly when they were presented, yet viewed them with curiosity. She did not take the initiative, but waited for Mrs. Beltrán to make her inquiries.
"I have been told," Mrs. Beltrán began, "that my son spent some years with you. I wish to thank you for your care of him."
There was no responsive interest in Pilar's expression. "I gave him care, yes, I will not deny that. A young child is troublesome, a boy especially."
"I can understand that." Mrs. Beltrán was determined to be conciliatory. She yearned to learn all that could be told. "I hope he did not give you needless trouble," she said, "and that he was able to assist you."
"He was beginning to be a little useful, the ungrateful wretch, when he took it into his head to run away. What an ingrate! A good home during all those years of a child's most irritating and careless behavior, then when he could have earned his keep he must needs leave to better himself. To better himself!Hombre!Was not a good home, a comfortable bed, enough food sufficient for him? Was he the son of a nobleman that he must pine for richer fare?Ave Maria, what did he expect? I venture to say that many a night have his bones ached for his good bed, and he has wished for theguisohe scorned, for a roof to cover him. But he need not return; he knows that for I told him so."
"Then you knew he was going. Did you know where?" asked Mrs. Beltrán eagerly.
"He had hinted more than once that some day he would leave, when he complained of his work, the lazybobo, of his prospects. Was he son of mine that I should promise him fields and crops?Que bobo!If you go you do not return, was what I said. So he has gone and he knows better than to return. No grief to me is that."
"You do not know where he went?" Mrs. Beltrán queried, finding it hard to restrain her indignation.
"Not I, unless to the city. It is along that road all triflers travel."
"The city? But what city?"
"How should I know? He has chosen his road. I did not choose it for him. Like amonohe imitates those who believe they will make their fortunes. He may have gone to America, who knows?"
"Have you any reason to think that?" asked Mrs. Beltrán, anxiously. Pilar gave a short sardonic laugh. "He has seen Americanos strutting around in their store clothes, their gold chains across their stomachs, their strange and ugly hats upon their heads. It would be just like him to admire such. He was always one to be discontented with simple things. 'Why should I cut hay all my life? Why should I lead the cow cart? Why should I tend aburro?'Borricohimself and well suited to herd withburros." She seemed to take bitter satisfaction in pouring forth her spite and scorn upon the mother and sister of the boy and no appeal affected her.
So at last the three returned to Doña Prudencia. In such a rage was Doña Benilda that her voice shook as she cried passionately: "It is the last time that I address myself to that piece of stone, Prudencia. Ay! Ay! she is worse; she is a hyena, a tigress to so tear the heart of a mourning mother, to give her no word of comfort. But," she turned to Mrs. Beltrán, "we will not give up, my cousin, we will the more apply ourselves to seeking information, the more will we pray to Our Lady of Pity to help you."
"Ah," sighed Doña Prudencia, "I feared you would learn little from that frozen piece of flesh. I feared to set my hopes upon any interview with her, but there must be some one who knew the child, some one to whom he talked of his plans. We shall make inquiries in thepuebloof my Uncle Marcos."
"I shall make it my duty to go there myself," exclaimed Rodrigo. "I shall leave no stone unturned. Ah, she hasel diablo en el cuerpo, that Pilar. I wish we might show her the contempt we feel."
"I shall wear no ornaments. If needs be I will promise to leave them off longer." Amparo's earnest little voice spoke up while she leaned over and patted Anita's hand.
"So grieved we are that you should encounter such rudeness in one of our compatriots," said Doña Prudencia, "but she is a low creature. Her mother was but acriadain the house of my grandfather and what can you expect? She has a head of wood and a heart of marble. She is nothing but a piece of furniture, not a woman at all." With these and other remarks did they try to console Mrs. Beltrán and Anita.
"How good you all are," exclaimed the latter. "And you, Rodrigo, I am sure you will find out something at the village. It is a happy thought to seek others more communicative than this disagreeable Pilar."
At the sound of drums, violins and tambourines, Amparo sprang to her feet. "The dance!" she cried. "Come, Anita; come, Rodrigo. It is the music of thejotathat we hear. I must not miss a partner. You, Rodrigo, will dance with Anita."
It was with some misgivings that Anita took her place opposite Rodrigo in the long line. Amparo in her pretty peasant dress stood next her, having for her partner a graceful young countryman who danced like an angel, so Amparo whispered. "It is as it should be," she continued, "for Angel is his name." With Rodrigo to pilot her through in safety on the one side and Amparo to support her on the other, Anita managed fairly well. The lilt of the music crept into her blood and she finally was able to respond to it with the grace and enthusiasm of a true Spanish girl. Her eyes were shining, her lips and cheeks bright with color when the last strain died away.
"Ah, my cousin, you show your Spanish blood," said Rodrigo. "You love the dance, yes?"
"Oh, I do, I do, and I shall expect to do better each time. Will they have thejotaagain?"
"Oh, yes, again, and more than once. See now, this another not so pretty dance. Will you try it?"
But Anita did not care to join in the uninteresting and rather monotonous dance, a few shuffling steps and a circling around, repeated and repeated. "It is not graceful like the other," she commented.
"Perhaps no," responded Rodrigo, "but after the so great exercise ofjotais a restfulness. Let us make a walk and see what is go on while the dance continue."
They wandered about among the groups of people now thronging the grounds. The train had brought a large addition to the numbers, and automobiles brought more. Pitiful looking beggars, lame, halt, blind, deformed, crawled up to them to ask for alms. Gypsies waylaid them promising a good fortune. Dealers in cakes, in nuts, in sweet insipid drinks, offered their wares. Gallegos trolled forth their songs. Melancholy ballad singers wailed out doleful stanzas about tombstones, sepulchres and ghostly apparitions. It was all very novel, very interesting to the American-bred girl, who, in hermanton de Manilalooked her part of a Spanish maiden.
Rodrigo, anxious to show attention, brought up one after another of his acquaintances. Amparo, eager to display hospitality, presented her young friends who claimed the new found cousin as their own countrywoman and made much of her.
It was a youngaldeanowho seemed most attracted to the American girl, "Inglesa," he called her. "She reminds me somewhat of one I knew," he said in an aside to Rodrigo, "and the name is the same. Perhaps it is that it is a Beltrán family resemblance."
"Ah-h," cried Rodrigo. "Who, Anselmo, is this of whom you speak?"
"A lad of my pueblo, Pepé Beltrán he was.Ay de mi, the poor Pepé. It is long since I saw him. We were friends, yes, we were good friends."
"Pepé Beltrán, did you say?"
"The same."
"And where is he?"
"At the present moment I do not know.Pobrecito!He is gone, departed from Piñeres."
"With whom did he live? His parents?" Rodrigo questioned excitedly.
"No, with his Uncle Marcos, now dead. It was when the uncle died that no longer could be sustained the slave life of the boy. Never afiestafor Pepé, never a holiday. The work of two men for a lad of fifteen. It was beyond endurance and none blamed him for going elsewhere to seek his fortune."
Rodrigo turned hurriedly to Anita, who was talking to one of Amparo's friends. "Here is one who knew the brother of you. Come, come, we will take him to the mother. He knew, yes, yes, he knew Pepé."
Anita sprang forward and grasped Anselmo's arm. "You knew my brother? How wonderful! Come, come quickly to my mother."
They hastened the young man along to where Mrs. Beltrán was sitting with Doña Prudencia, watching the crowds. Doña Benilda had gone off to chat with some friends she had caught sight of.
"Mother, mother," cried Anita, "here is some one who knew Pepé. Think of it! he knew Pepé; he was his good friend. Oh, ask him, ask him where he is. Let him tell you all he knows. This is my mother and Pepé's, señor."
"It is our good friend Anselmo Ortega, cousin," said Rodrigo. "He is of Piñeres, thepueblowhere lived our uncle Marcos, and he has known your son."
Mrs. Beltrán clasped her hands beseechingly. "Tell me, señor," she said earnestly, "do you know where my boy has gone? Oh, this is wonderful."
"He went to Barcelona," replied Anselmo, "but I cannot tell whether he is there now or not. Once, twice, perhaps three times I heard from him, then no more. He is silent now three years."
"Tell me all, all you can," Mrs. Beltrán made room on the bench for the young man. "Begin at the beginning."
"He was a little lad when first I saw him," began Anselmo, sitting down. "We were at school together but he did not come regularly, for if there were hay to be cut, if there was extra work to be done, young as he was he had to help. He loved books, music, all such, and made the most of the instruction he received. He had an old violin on which he played, we thought marvelously, by ear. It was his best friend. The uncle was not unkind except in making the boy work when he should have been studying. He allowed him to play on his violin though his aunt Pilar disapproved."
"Poor little lad, poor little lad," murmured Mrs. Beltrán with tears in her voice.
"It was after the uncle died," Anselmo went on, "that Pepé came to me to say, 'I leave the pueblo, Anselmo. No longer can I remain. My aunt has taken my violin and locked it up, saying I am wasting time and that I shall no longer be allowed to play. But I know where it is. I shall break the lock and take what is my own. When she did this thing I told her I would not stay. I was angry, never was I so angry, so beside myself with rage. I told her I would go, so if you hear I have gone you will know why; you will know that I cannot live without my violin. It is my comfort, my friend. I should die of unhappiness, deprived of it.'"
Mrs. Beltrán sat with clenched hands, her lips quivering while Anita wept openly. "Car-r-ramba," growled Rodrigo, "but she is amalvada, an oldbruja. Continue, Anselmo."
"Then," Anselmo went on, "he said, 'You have been kinder to me than anyone else, Anselmo.' Pardon me, señora for telling you this," Anselmo interrupted himself, "I but wish to explain why I know what others may not. Few ever saw Pepé after his uncle's death, for he was not permitted recreations. It was work for him from morn till night. The widow of Don Marcos was twice as grasping as her husband and would consent to nothing which lightened labor or encouraged idleness. However, I would manage to seek out Pepé, for I found him verysimpatico, and we would talk of those things which boys like, of the world outside, of our hopes and ambitions. 'So, I go,' he said, 'to-night, I think. I go to Barcelona, for it is there I shall find my best chance for work of a kind to advance me. I shall get there somehow, and my violin will earn me food by the way.'"
"And did he expect to walk all the way?" inquired Anita solicitously.
"Perhaps not all the way; he expected to encounter travellers who would give him a lift in one way or another," Anselmo told her. "You will write to me, Pepé, I said, and I do not blame you for going. Perhaps some day I shall go to Barcelona myself and then we may meet again."
"And you say he did write several times?" Mrs. Beltrán questioned.
"He wrote, but cautiously. He had been a long time on the way, but had arrived at last, had been helped over the worst part of the road by more than oneviajante, had played in the villages, had slept in the hay, had sometimes fared badly, sometimes well, but there he was and looking for work."
"Did he find it?" queried Anita.
"In time he found a place which paid him little, yet enough to keep him from starvation," he wrote, "and in time he expected to do better; in fact he did."
"He gave his address?" Mrs. Beltrán inquired agitatedly.
"I have it, señora; I will send it to you, but it is now three years, I must remind you."
"No matter, no matter, it is the strongest clue we have yet had. We may find him there, or at least may discover where he has gone. It is a step, it is many steps nearer than we have yet been able to go. I cannot thank you enough, señor. A mother's blessing go with you."
"The pleasure is mine," responded Anselmo. "I place myself at your feet, señora."
"Oh, mother! Oh, mother!" panted Anita, her breath coming and going so quickly that she could hardly speak. "To think we have been able to follow his life up to within three years of the present. So near, so near. Oh, we shall find him. I know we shall."
Her mother seized her hand and held it tightly. "I cannot wait. To-morrow we start for Barcelona," she said with decision.