In the mean time the happy Christmas holidays arrived. They had
arranged for the children a beautiful birth-place, which occupied the
whole front of the parlor, covering it with aromatic pistachio,
rosemary, lavender, and other odorous plants and leaves. Perico
brought these things from the field with all the pleasure of a lover
bringing flowers to his bride.
On Christmas day, Perico heard mass early, and went to take a walk to
his wheat-field, having been told that there were goats in the
neighborhood.
He returned home about ten o'clock, and found the children alone.
"How glad we are, father, that you have come," they shouted, running
joyfully toward him. "They have all gone and left us."
"Where then are Mamma Anna, and Aunt Elvira?"
"They went to high mass."
"Who staid with you?"
"Mother."
"And where is she?"
"How do we know? We were in the parlor with her grace, dancing before
the birth-place. Ventura came in, and mother told us to go somewhere
else with the music, for it made her head ache, and when we were going
out Ventura told her, I heard it, father, that she did right to put
the door between, for the little angels of God were the devil's little
witnesses. Is it true, father, are we the devil's little witnesses?"
To whom has it not happened, at some time in his life, in great or in
less important circumstances, that a single word has been the key to
open and explain; the torch to illuminate the present and the past; to
bring out of oblivion and light up a train of circumstances and
incidents which had transpired unperceived, but which now unite, to
form an opinion, to fix a conviction or to root a belief? Such was the
effect upon Perico of the words, which the decree of expiation seemed
to have put into the mouth of innocence.
Late, but terrible, the truth presented itself to the eyes which good
faith had kept closed, and doubt took possession of the heart so
healthy and so shielded by honor that a suspicion had never entered
it.
"Father, father!" cried the children, seeing him tremble and turn
pale. Perico did not hear them.
"Mamma Anna," they exclaimed, as the latter entered, "hurry, father is
sick!"
{673}
As he heard his mother enter, Perico turned his perplexed eyes toward
her, and seemed to read again in her severe countenance the terrible
sentence she had once pronounced upon a future from which her loving
foresight would have preserved him: "A bad daughter will be a bad
wife." Overwhelmed, he rushed out of the house, muttering a pretext
for his flight which no one understood.
Anna put her head out of the window, and felt relieved as she saw that
he went toward the fields.
"Could any one have told him that goats have broken into the wheat?"
"It is very likely, mother; he suspected it yesterday," answered
Elvira. But dinner-time came, and Perico did not appear.
It was strange, on Christmas day; but to country people, who have no
fixed hours, it was not alarming.
In the evening Maria arrived at the usual time.
"Did Ventura not come to the village to-day?" asked Anna.
"Yes," answered Pedro, "but there is an entertainment, and his friends
carried him off. He has always been so fond of dancing that he would
at any time leave his dinner, for a fandango."
"And Rita," said Elvira, "was she not at your house. Aunt Maria?"
"She came there, my daughter, but wanted to go with a neighbor to the
entertainment. I told her she had better stay at home, but as she
never minds me--"
"And you told her right, Maria," added Pedro, "an honest woman's place
is in the house."
They were oppressed and silent when Perico abruptly entered.
The light was so deadened by the lamp-shade that they did not perceive
the complete transformation of his face. Dark lines, which appeared
the effect of long days of sickness, encircled his burning eyes, and
his lips were red and parched like those of a person in a fever. He
threw a rapid glance around, and abruptly asked, "Where is Rita?"
All remained silent; at length Maria said timidly,
"My son, she went for a little while to the feast with a neighbor--she
must be here soon--she took it into her head--and as it was Christmas
day--"
Without answering a word, Perico turned suddenly, and left the room.
His mother rose quickly and followed, but did not overtake him.
"I tell you, Maria," said Pedro, "that Perico ought to beat her well.
I would not say a word to stop him."
"Don't talk so, Pedro," answered Maria, "Perico is not the one to
strike a woman. My poor little girl! we shall see. What harm is there
in giving two or three hops? Old folks, Pedro, should not forget that
they have been young."
At this moment Anna entered, trembling.
"Pedro," she said, "go to the feast!"
"I?" answered Pedro; "you are cool! I am out of all patience with that
same feast. If Perico warms his wife's ribs, he will be well employed;
she shall not dry her tears upon my pocket-handkerchief."
"Pedro, go to the feast!" said Anna again, but this time with such an
accent of distress, that Pedro turned his head and sat staring at her.
Anna caught him by the arm, obliged him to rise, drew him aside, and
spoke a few rapid words to him in a low voice.
The old man as he listened gave a half-suppressed cry, clasped his
hands across his forehead, caught up his hat and hastily left the
house.