AT A FIESTA
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 the _fiesta_ of 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 the _fiesta_ of 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 a _fiesta_.
"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 the _danza 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 the _guiso_ he 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 lazy _bobo_, 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 a _mono_ he 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 a _burro_?' _Borrico_ himself and well suited
to herd with _burros_." 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 the _pueblo_ of my
Uncle Marcos."
"I shall make it my duty to go there myself," exclaimed Rodrigo. "I
shall leave no stone unturned. Ah, she has _el 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 a _criada_ in 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 the _jota_ that 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 the _jota_ again?"
"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 of
_jota_ is 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 her _manton de Manila_
looked 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 young _aldeano_ who 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 a
_fiesta_ for 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, the _pueblo_ where 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 a _malvada_,
an old _bruja_. 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
very _simpatico_, 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 one _viajante_, 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.