By the time Pepita had reached home her mood had changed--her anger was
gone, or at least the signs of it were. She sang as she prepared the
supper, and chatted gayly with José. It appeared that, after all, she
had enjoyed the bull-fight; it had even been better than the others;
she had had great pleasure. She made delightful little jests about
everything; she recounted the names of the people she had seen and
known; she described to him the dresses of the girls, the airs and
graces of the men. She laughed, and obliged José to laugh also, and all
the time she looked so pretty, with the queer light in her eyes, the
gleam of her little wicked white teeth, and the brilliant spot of color
on her cheeks, that she was enough to turn one’s head.
The moon was at its brightest that night. All the earth was bathed
in pure, magic whiteness--the whiteness which somehow seems to bring
perfume and stillness and mysterious tenderness with it. Such a night!
One breathed roses and orange blossoms and jasmine. Pepita sat under the
roses and sang and talked, and José smoked and was happy, but still in
a state of bewilderment, though the stillness and beauty of the night
soothed him and made him content to ruminate without words.
Jovita fell asleep. She always fell asleep out-of-doors on the warm
summer nights, and in-doors by the fire when it was winter. Pepita
ceased to talk, and sang one little song after another; then she even
ceased to sing, and only touched her guitar softly now and then. After a
while José, who had stretched himself upon a bench, fell asleep also.
Pepita ceased to touch her guitar. She looked out at the flowers
sleeping in the moonlight, and for a few minutes was very still; then
she laid the guitar down and stepped out into the brightness.
In the light of the moon one cannot see the color in a face. Perhaps
this was why hers seemed to be gone. She looked quite pale, and her
lovely little brows were drawn together until they made a black line
across her forehead. She clasped her hands behind her head, and with her
face a little thrown back, so that the light fell full upon it, wandered
out among the trees and fragrant flowering things. She liked the jasmine
best, and over one part of the low, rough wall there climbed one which
blossomed with a myriad stars. So she went and stood by it, and looked
now at it, now up and down the road, which the moon had made into a path
of snow.
And as she stood there, suddenly there started up on the other side of
the wall the figure she knew so well, and the next moment it had vaulted
over and was close to her. Sebastiano!
She stood still, her hands still clasped behind her head, her face still
upturned, and looked at him.
[Illustration: Her hands still clasped behind her head 107]
He folded his arms and looked at her. As for him, whether the moonlight
was to blame or not, he was as pale as death.
“Yes,” he said, “you are always the same. You do not change. One may
come at any hour. But listen to me. You think I have come to reproach
you. Why should I? I have fought bulls, but that does not teach men how
to deal with women. I thought that, if a man gave you his soul and his
life and the breath of his body, you would listen some day and let him
think of you. You are a woman, and you are made to be loved; but there
is something hard in your heart. You are proud of having mocked a man
who was honest and loved you. But hear me: it is better, after all, to
be less pretty and more a woman.”
He stopped an instant. She had changed her position, and stood by the
jasmine, stripping the blossoms from it one by one. She began to smile
and sing softly, as if to herself:
“Oh, bird at my window,
Sing but one song to me,
My lover who is light and gay.”
“And more a woman,” said Sebastiano. “It is women men want.”
Pepita looked up and laughed; then she sang again:
“Who stirs the blossoms in the night,
Who breaks the orange flower.”
Sebastiano made a swift movement and caught her wrists, his eyes
flashing fire.
“That is nothing,” he said. “You are woman enough. The time will come.
It will not be always like this. You can be _made_ to love. Yes, you are
one of those who must be _made_. Then you will suffer too, and it will
be good for you. You will speak then.”
He paused a moment, and held her arms a little apart, looking at her
with a sudden change to mournfulness.
“How pretty you are!” he said. “How little and how pretty! If you were
good and gentle, and one might touch your cheek softly or stroke your
hair, how one would love and serve you! No, you cannot move. I have not
fought bulls for nothing. If I let you move you will struggle and hurt
yourself. Listen. I am going away. I will trouble you no more now. I
will wait. If one waits long enough, pain ceases and one forgets. It
is so with a wound, why not with what one feels for a woman? I said you
could be _made_ to love; but let that be left for another man to do. I
want no love like that. I want a woman. Some day you will not cast the
_devisa_ under your feet. You will take it and hide it in your breast.
It will not be mine, but some other man’s who loves you less. I loved
you, I was mad for you; but it shall cease. It is better to think only
of the bulls than to play the fool for a woman who has no love in her
heart. You are pretty, but that is not everything. You can work spells,
but a man can break through them. There! Go!”
He gave her one long look, flung her hands aside, and had vaulted the
wall and was gone himself one moment later.
Pepita stood still with clinched hands dropped at her side, staring with
wide fierce eyes down the white moonlit road.
The next evening José came home from his work later than usual. He came
down the road with a drooping head and a slow and heavy step. When he
sat down to his food he ate but little, and as he bent over his soup he
heard Jovita scolding.
“It is gone,” she was saying. “You took it, and have thrown it away.”
“Was it not mine?” said Pepita. “It was mine. I cared nothing for it,
and have done what I chose with it.”
José lifted his head and listened.
“What has happened?” he asked.
“She has thrown away the _devisa_, which I had saved,” answered Jovita.
“I laid it away, and she has taken it. What harm did it do her that it
should lie out of her sight in peace?”
“Did you do that?” José said to Pepita.
“Was it meant for her?” said Pepita. “I told you he ought to have thrown
it to her and not to me.”
José broke a piece of bread and crumbled it on the table mechanically.
“You need not have done that,” he said. “I wish you had left it in its
place. It did no hurt, and we shall not see him again. He is not coming
any more. And soon he goes away; and who knows what may happen?”
Pepita walked out of the house without speaking. She did not come back
for a long time, and they did not know where she had gone; but as that
was her way when she was in a naughty humor, they were not anxious about
her.
When she returned at last the moon was shining again, and Jovita was
asleep in the shadow of the vines, and José sat on the bench outside the
door, smoking.
[Illustration: Pepita sat down on the threshold 115]
Pepita sat down on the threshold and rested her head against the side of
the door. She said nothing at all, and only looked out at the dew-laden
flowers sparkling in the garden.
There was silence for several minutes, and then José turned uneasily and
spoke.
“Yes,” he said, “he will not come again; and soon he goes away. It is
for the best. He is very strong and determined. Perhaps that comes of
fighting bulls. He said he wanted you, but you did not want him, so he
must forget about you. He must cease to think of you or hear of you.
He asked me as a friend not to let him see me for a while, until it was
over. To see me would remind him of you, and that would not do. He asked
it as a friend--there was no unkind-ness--he is my friend, yes, though
he is Sebastiano and I am only a poor fellow who works hard. It will
all be as well as ever between us when it is all done with and we meet
again. If you had wanted him we should have been brothers.”
Pepita sat still. What strange thing had happened to her? She did not
know. Something was the matter with her breathing. Something hurt her
side--labored in it with heavy beatings like blows which suffocated her.
She shut her hands and drove the nails into her palms. She could not
have spoken for the world.
Before José could say more she rose with fierce suddenness, and passed
him and was gone again.
The poor fellow looked after her small swift form mournfully.
“If she had wanted him,” he said, “he would have made her a good
husband, and we should have been brothers. But she is not easy to
please, and she would not give one a chance who did not please her at
first. And there is no one who slays a bull as he does!”
Pepita flew like a bird until she reached the low wall where the jasmine
grew, at the spot where she had stood the night before. There she
stopped, panting. The breath of the jasmine filled all the air about
her. She looked up the white road.
A strange new passion filled her. She did not know whether it was anger
or not, but if it was anger it was of a new kind, with more pain in
it than she was used to. He would not come again--not at all again!
He would not appear at her side as if he had sprung from the earth; he
would not follow her or plead with her, or look at her every moment he
was near her; he would not try to make her speak. Only last night he was
here in this very spot, and now he would never speak like that again. He
would forget her, not care for her--forget her, Pepita.
She would not believe it. She knew he could not--they never did; they
always loved her best and wanted no one else. And still the labored
throbbing went on in her side and she panted for breath.
“Come back,” she cried, looking up the white road. “I tell you to come
back. You shall. Do you hear? I tell you--I--Pepita!”
But there was no answer, no sound of any footstep, no sign of any
advancing shadow. The road stretched out its white length in utter
solitude, and a strange, wild look came into her beautiful little face.
“Do you not hear?” she persisted. “I will not speak to you if you do
come; I will give you nothing; I will not look at you; but you shall
come because I will it--because I am Pepita.”
Still there was only silence and loneliness. Suddenly she flung out her
hands and stamped her foot.
“I will kill you,” she said. “If you do not come--I will kill you!”
Then almost immediately she put her clinched hand to her beating side
and sank down upon the earth, burying her face in the dew-wet fragrant
tangle of the jasmine.
But he did not come back. And yet every night she went and stood by the
low wall, and looked up the white road and watched and waited. For a
long time she did not know what she intended to do if he should appear.
All was vague in her mind. At first it seemed only as if her whole being
went out into the fierce demand that he should come, and the obstinate
proud belief that it must be as she wished--that he could not resist and
disobey her. Who had ever disobeyed her? Not José; not Jovita, for all
her grumblings; not any of those others. And was it likely that he who
had adored her more than all the rest, who had watched her with that
hungry love in his eyes, could do what no other had ever done? She told
herself this over and over again; but he did not come. She began to feel
a feverish eagerness when she dressed herself, a passionate desire to
be pretty--to be prettier than ever before. She used to stand before her
scrap of looking-glass to try on one bit of simple finery after another,
twisting up the soft cloud of her hair afresh a dozen times a day, and
putting a fresh flower in it. She went to the well again and again and
filled her jar, and emptied and filled it again, and lingered, and tried
not to look round when she heard a footstep; but the right one never
came, though her heart’s throbbing shook her many times in false alarm.
She was only a child--a passionate Spanish child, ignorant and full
of fierce young natural impulses--and she knew only childish, crude
methods. So she made herself beautiful, and showed herself in the places
where she thought he would see her and be unable to resist her will
and her beauty; but though she made José take her here and there and
everywhere, she never saw Sebastiano but once. It was in the Public
Garden, where they had first met. They were sitting in the shade
refreshing themselves with wine, and he came toward them, not at first
seeing them. Pepita clutched her fan until she broke it, and a wild
exultation sprang in her breast. She had seen before she left home that
she had never before been so pretty.
There had come into her face a new look--a fire that had burned deeper
every charm. He would see--he would see that she was Pepita still, and
that he could not keep his word if she chose--if she chose.
He drew nearer and nearer, still not seeing them. He was talking to the
three companions who were with him. He was richly dressed, and looked
stronger than ever, and more handsome and graceful. He came still
nearer. No, she would not speak to him. No! He looked up and his eye
fell upon them--upon José and Jovita and Pepita! He drew back a step
and stood still; he made a low bow to them, a grand bow, such as he made
when he was in the bull-ring and the people applauded. He turned away
and passed on. Yes, without a word.
Jose sighed a deep and mournful sigh and rose to his feet.
“Come,” he said. “We must go. It is best not to stay. He does not wish
to see us, and he asked that I would keep away. It is a pity--but he
asked it.”
The breath was coming in sharp little puffs through Pepita’s delicate
nostrils. It was as if she had been struck a blow. She walked home as in
a sort of delirium; she saw none of those who turned to look at her. She
walked faster and faster. Jovita could not keep pace with her.
“What is the matter?” said the old woman. “You walk as if you had a
devil in you. Your breath is all gone. Are you mad?”
At night, when they sat together, Pepita spoke of the next bull-fight.
José must take her. She wished to go.
“It is better that we should not go there,” said José. “You know why.
He will not like to see you. You saw how it was to-day. He is not angry,
only he is determined not to be reminded. Soon he will go away, and then
you shall go with me as often as you wish; but not now. After this week
he will be far away--far away.”
“I will go now,” said Pepita. “I will go without you if you will not
take me. Isabella and Juan and Manuel will be glad enough. Let him--let
him look at his bulls.”
She did not know that it was desperation that had seized upon her; she
thought it was defiance. Yes, yes, she told herself, breathlessly, he
should see her laugh and talk with Manuel and Carlos and Juan and the
rest; and then he would be punished.
She would hear nothing that José said. She would go--she would go. No
other bull-fight but this would please her.
She could scarcely live until the day arrived. She had made for herself
a new gala dress; she had a new fan and a necklace she had bought out of
her little savings.
There was a great crowd. It was known that Sebastiano was to go away,
and many had come for that reason, wishing to see him for the last time
in the season.
At first Pepita was gayer than her adorers had ever seen her. She
deigned to talk and smile and listen. She had the restlessness and color
of some brilliant-winged bird. Isabella looked at her in wonder.
“She was never like this before,” she whispered to Juan.
And then Sebastiano came, and for the time they saw only him.
When at last the bull lay an inert mass in the dust, and the people
shouted and almost flung themselves from their places into the arena in
their excitement, and the gay and superb actor bowed to them--bowed to
them again and again--Pepita sat like a little image of stone. She was
quite colorless, and her eyes were fixed. She seemed to hear and see
nothing until some one spoke to her. Then she rose and looked at Manuel.
“It is too hot,” she said, in a low voice not like her own. “I must go.
The sun. I have a pain in my head. Come.”
He had not lifted his eyes once to her. It was as if she had not
lived--as if she had been Isabella or Carmenita--and he did not give her
a thought. No, he had not once looked up.
The next day he was gone. She heard José say so to Jovita, who grumbled
loudly. She had forgotten her old distaste for these “fine ones.”
“And but for her humors he would have stayed,” she said. “What more does
she want than a fine well-built man like that--a man who is well-to-do,
and whom every other girl would dance for joy to get? But no; nothing
but a prince for her. Well, we shall see. She will work for her bread
herself at last, and serve the other women who have homes and husbands.”
In the middle of the night she was wakened from her slumbers by
something--she knew not what. Soon she perceived it was Pepita,
trembling.
“What is it now?” demanded the old woman.
“I stayed out in the dew too long,” said Pepita, “and I am cold.”
“That is well,” said Jovita. “Get chilled through and have a fever, that
we may ruin ourselves with doctors’ bills; and all because you choose to
remain in the night air when you should be asleep.”
Pepita lay on her pillow, her eyes wide open in the darkness, her small
hot hand clutching against her breast something she had hung round her
neck by a bit of ribbon. It was the _devisa_ she had stolen from Jovita,
and which had not been thrown away at all. In the daytime it was hidden
in the bosom of her dress; at night it hung by a cord and her hand held
it. By this time a sort of terror had mingled itself with her passion of
anger and pain, and she lay trembling because she was saying to herself
again and again:
“I am like Sarita! I am like Sarita!”
She said it to herself a thousand times in the weeks and months which
followed, and which seemed to her helplessness like years. She said it
in as many moods as there were hours of the day. Sometimes with wild
unreasoning childish rage; sometimes with a shock of fear; sometimes in
a frenzy of shame; sometimes, as she stood and looked up the road, her
cheeks pale, her eyes dilated with self-pity and tears.
“I am like Sarita! Yes--Sarita!” She remembered with superstitious
tremor all the things that had been said to her of the punishment that
would fall upon her because of her hard-heartedness. She remembered
Jovita’s prophecies, and how she had mocked them; how cruel she had been
to those who suffered for her; how she had laughed in their faces and
turned away from their sighs.
She remembered Felipe, whom she had not spared one pang--Felipe, at whom
she had only stared in scorn when he wept and wrung his hands before
her. Had he felt like this when she sent him back to Seville to despair?
A cruel fever of restlessness burned her. She could find pleasure no
more in the novelties of the city, in the gayeties of the gardens, in
her own beauty.
Sometimes she was sure it was magic--the evil-eye. And she slipped
away, poor child! and knelt in the still, cool church, and prayed to be
delivered.
But once as she was doing this a sudden thought struck her.
“Not to think of him any more,” she said, knitting her brows with yet
another new pang. “Not to remember his face--not to remember his voice
and the words he said! No, no!” And her rosary slipped from her fingers
and fell upon the stone floor, and she picked it up and rose from her
knees and went away.
All that day and night she thought and thought, and the next day went
to pray again--but not that she might be delivered. She brought to the
shrine at which she knelt substantial promises as offerings. Hers were
not the prayers of a saint, but of a passionate, importunate child,
self-willed and tempestuous. She would not have prayed if she could have
hoped for help from any earthly means. She had never prayed for anything
before. She had always taken what she wanted and gone her way; but she
had had few needs. Now in this strange anguish she could do nothing for
herself, and surely it was the place of the Virgin and the saints to
help her. She stormed the painted wax figure in its niche with appeals
which were innocently like demands.
Make him come back--make him come back to her. Mother of God, he must
return! Make him come to the wall some night--yes, to-night. He must not
know that she was like Sarita, but he must come; and whatsoever she did
or said he must not go away again. She would sell her new necklace; the
silver comb her mother had left, her--the comb her father had given her
mother in the days of their courtship; she would do some work, and give
to the Holy Mother some candles and flowers; but he must come back, and
he must not go away again whatsoever she did.
She knelt upon the stone floor, her hands wrung together, pouring forth
the same words breathlessly over and over, each reiteration more intense
than the last, all her young strength going out into the appeal.
And still she had not yet reached the point of knowing what she should
do and say when he came.
When she tried to rise to her feet she was obliged to make two efforts
before she succeeded. She had given such a passion of strength to her
siege that she was almost exhausted, and she went out into the dazzling
sunlight trembling. She did this day after day, day after day, and at
night she waited by the wall, but the road was always the same.
And she could hear nothing--not a word. She could not ask, even though
sometimes as she sat and gazed at José with hungry eyes it seemed as if
she must drop dead if he did not speak. But he did not speak because he
could have told her but little, and was quite secure in his belief that
the mere mention of Sebastiano’s name angered her.
So the time went by--weeks and months--and at last one evening she went
to the church and prayed a new prayer.
“Sacred Mother,” she said, “I have sold the comb and the necklace, and
I have worked and can keep my word. I have bought a little golden heart.
And if he comes”--in a fainter whisper--“if he comes I will say nothing
ill to him.”
That night, for the first time, she heard of Sebastiano.
Little Carlos came in and was full of news.
“They say that Sebastiano has had great success, and that perhaps he
will go to America.”
“Where is America?” asked Jovita.
“It is at the other end of the world, and never yet have the people seen
a bull-fight.”
“Never?” said José, staring. “That is impossible!”
“It is true,” answered Carlos. “And they are rich, and like new things;
and the king has spoken of sending for Sebastiano. He will be rich
enough to build a palace for his old age.”
A few days later, in the dusk of the evening, there crept into the
church a little figure familiar to the painted saints and the waxen
Virgin. But to-day it wore a changed aspect. It moved slowly at first,
reluctantly; the brilliant little face was pale; the eyes wild with
torture. A moment it stood before the altar, and then flung up its arms
with a fierce gesture.
“Mother of God,” it cried, brokenly, “then if it must be so--tell
him--tell him that I am like Sarita!” and fell upon the altar steps
shuddering and sobbing like a beaten child.
[Illustration: Shuddering and sobbing like a beaten child 135]