The acquaintance thus unpromisingly begun among the three children grew
apace. At first, Chinita’s visits were as infrequent as Pedro’s
watchfulness and Doña Rita’s antipathy to the foundling could render
them, although neither openly interfered,—Pedro, for reasons best known
to himself, and Doña Rita out of respect to her mother-in-law, who she
saw, in her undemonstrative and quiet way, seemed inclined to regard the
child with an interest differing from that with which she favored the
children of the herdsmen and laborers. Doña Feliz seldom gave Chinita
anything, even in the way of sweets, with which on special festival days
she sometimes regaled the others; but in the chill days of the rainy
season, or when the norther blew, she it was who chid her if she ran
barefooted across the courts, or left her shoulders and head uncovered,
and who set all the children to string wonderful beads of amber and red
and yellow, placing the painted gourd which contained them close to the
brasier of glowing coals, so that the shivering little creature might
benefit by its warmth.
Not that the waif was neglected, according to the customs of Pedro’s
people,—indeed he was lavish to her of all sorts of rural finery. But
where all children ran barefoot, where none wore more clothing than a
chemise, a skirt, and the inevitable reboso (a long striped scarf of
flexible cotton), and in a clime where this was usually more than
sufficient for protection, it did not occur either to Florencia or Pedro
to provide more against those few bitter days, when it seemed quite
natural to shiver, perhaps grow ill, and to mutter against the bad
weather; and so, very often the child he would have given his life to
shelter had run a thousand risks of wind and weather, which custom had
inured her to, and a robust constitution defied.
Still Chinita was glad of shelter and warmth, though like others, she
bore the lack of them stoically, and at first in the bad weather went to
the administrador’s for such comforts, as much as from the attraction
which Rosario’s spiteful fondness and Chata’s soft friendliness offered;
while so it chanced that she was suffered to go and come as the dogs
did, sometimes caressed, sometimes greeted with a sharp word, often
enough unnoticed except by Chata, who looked for the visit each day,
never forgetting to save in anticipation a tiny bit of the preserved
fruit she had been given at dinner, or a handful of nuts. These
offerings of affection often proved efficacious in soothing the
irritation caused by Rosario’s uncertain moods. Yet it was to Rosario
that this perverse little creature attached herself; with her she
romped, and chased butterflies in the garden; with her she laughed and
quarrelled; and Chata looked on the two with a precocious benignity
pretty to see, leaning often upon Doña Feliz’s lap, and, with a quaint
little way she had, smoothing down with one little finger the tip of her
tiny nose which obstinately turned skyward, giving just the suggestion
of sauciness to features which otherwise would have been inanely
uncharacteristic.
Doña Rita was of opinion that all that was necessary in the education of
girls was to teach them to hem so neatly that the stitches should not
show in the finest cambric, and to make conserves of various
sorts,—adding, by way of accomplishment, instruction in the drawing of
threads and the working of insertions in many and quaint designs, or the
modelling of fruits and figures in wax, to be used in the wonderful
mimic representation of the scene of the birth of the Saviour made at
Christmas. But Doña Feliz held more liberal views, and much as she
esteemed accomplishments, considered them of inferior value to the arts
of reading and writing, which she had herself acquired with infinite
difficulty, at the pain of disobedience to well-beloved parents.
Reading and writing, according to Feliz’s father, were inventions of the
arch-enemy, dangerous to men, and fatal to the weaker sex. What could a
woman use writing for, asked he, but to correspond with lovers,—when she
should only know of the existence of such beings when one was presented
as her future husband, by a wise and discreet father. What could a woman
desire to read but her prayers?—and those she should know by heart. In
vain, therefore, had been Feliz’s appeal to be taught to read and write.
At last she and the Señorita Isabel had puzzled out the forbidden lore
together, both copying portions of stolen letters, or the crabbed
manuscripts in which special prayers to patron saints were written, thus
acquiring an exquisite caligraphy, and learning the meanings of words as
they noticed them appear and reappear in the copies of prayers they knew
by heart. By a similar process the art of reading printing was
acquired,—all in secret, all with trembling and fear. Isabel, much
assisted by Feliz, who was older and had sooner begun her task, had
successfully concealed her knowledge until it could be revealed with
safety; and great was the indignation and surprise of Feliz’s father,
when on her wedding day the bride took up the pen and signed her
marriage contract, instead of affixing the decorous cross which had been
expected of her,—while the groom, too, was perhaps not over pleased to
find himself the husband of a wife of such high acquirements.
But these acquirements, added to her natural penetration, had been
powerful factors in the life of Doña Feliz. Her husband had been weak
and inefficient, yet had through her tact retained throughout his life
the management of the Garcia estates: in which he had been succeeded by
his son, a man of more character, which perhaps the preponderating
influence of his mother as much overshadowed as it had sustained and
lent a deceptive brilliancy to that of his father, who, like many a man
who goes to his grave respected and admired, had shone from a reflected
light as unsuspected and unappreciated as it was unobtrusive and
unfaltering.
Doña Feliz had all her life, in her quiet, self-assured way, ruled in
her household,—in her husband’s time because he had accepted her
opinions and acted upon them, unconscious that they were not his own;
while now by her son she was deferred to from the habitual respect a
Mexican yields to his mother, and from the steadfast admiration with
which from infancy he had recognized her talents. Thus, it is not an
exaggeration to say that Don Rafael, whatever might have been his
temptations to do otherwise, invariably identified himself in thought as
well as act with the mother to whom he felt he owed all that was strong
or fortunate or to be desired, not only in his station, but in mind or
person. Therefore it was not to be expected that he would interfere when
Doña Rita complained to him that his mother made Rosario cry by keeping
her poring over the mysteries of the alphabet, and that Chata inked her
fingers and frocks over vain endeavors to form the bow-letters at a
required angle, and that both would be better employed with the needle.
And indeed Don Rafael thought it a pretty sight, when he came upon his
mother seated in her low chair, with the two sisters before her,
Rosario’s mouth forming a fluted circle as she ejaculated “Oh!” in a
desperate attempt at “O,” and Chata following the lines painfully with
one fat forefinger, her eyes almost touching the book,—no dainty primer
with prettily colored pictures, but a certain red-bound volume of
“Letters of a Mother,” containing advice and admonition as alarming as
the long and abstruse words in which they were conveyed.
With all her inattention and impatience, Rosario learned her tasks with
a rapidity which roused the pride of her mother’s heart; but Chata, in
those early years, stumbled wofully on the road to learning. At
lesson-time Chinita, not a whit less grimy than of old, used to hasten
to crouch down behind her victimized little patroness, and sometimes
whisper impatiently in her ear, sometimes give her a sly tweak of the
hair, when her impatience grew beyond bounds, and at others vociferate
the word with startling force and suddenness; until one day it occurred
to Doña Feliz, who had made no effort to teach her anything, and had
often been oblivious of her very presence, that this little elf-locked
rancherita was her aptest pupil. That day, when the others unwillingly
seated themselves to their copy-books, she watched the gate-keeper’s
child, and saw her write the words she had set for her little pupils
upon the brick floor with a piece of charcoal taken from the kitchen,
then covertly wipe them off with the hem of her skirt.
Doña Feliz was touched. Here was a child of five doing what she herself
at fifteen had painfully acquired. She did not pause to think that what
with her had been the result of deep thought, was here but parrot-like
though effective imitation. She took away the charcoal from the child’s
blackened fingers, bade her stand at the table, and gave her pen and
ink.
After the lesson Chinita flew rather than ran across the court, leaving
Rosario and Chata astounded and offended that she would not play, and
thrust into Pedro’s hand a piece of dirty paper covered with cabalistic
characters. She had already confided to him that she could read, and had
even once spelled out to him a scrap of printed paper which had come in
his way, amazing him by her knowledge; but now that she could write, a
veritable superstitious awe of this elfish child befell him.
That evening Pedro stole into the church, and lighted two long candles
before the image of the Virgin. Were they an offering of thanks for a
miracle performed, or a bribe against evil? The man went back to his
post thoughtful, his breast swelling with pride, his head bowed in
apprehension. He never had heard that those the gods love die young, yet
something of such a fear oppressed him,—though as he found Chinita in
flagrant disgrace with Florencia because she had drunk the last drop of
thin corn-gruel which the woman had saved for her uncle’s supper, he had
reasonable ground for believing that the healthful perversity of her
animal spirits and moral nature might counteract the malefic effect of
mental precocity; and as he was thirsty that night, so might have been
interpreted the muttered “A dry joke this!” with which he looked into
the empty jar, and swallowed his tough tortillas and goatmilk cheese.
“Ay! but Florencia is cross to poor Chinita,” whispered this astute
little damsel, seizing the opportunity to creep up behind him when he
was not looking, of stealing a brown arm around his neck, and
interposing her shock of curls between his mouth and the morsel he
destined for it. “Who has poor Chinita to love her but Pedro, good
Pedro?” And so Pedro’s anger was charmed away, even as he thought evil
might be turned from his wilful charge by the faint glow of the two
feeble candles he had lighted. Were her coaxing ways as evanescent, as
little to be relied on, as their flicker? Ay, Chinita!