CHAPTER VIII.

Autumn had shortened the days, and winter was knocking at the door with fingers of ice. It was the hour when laborers return to their homes, and the sun casts a last cold glance upon the earth he is abandoning.

Perico came slowly, preceded by his ass, and followed by Melampo, who rivalled his ancient friend and companion in gravity. The latter still remembered with horror the entry of the French, though six years had passed since; for the flight of her masters caused her the wildest gallop she had taken in her whole life. She had not yet recovered from the fatigue.

When they entered their street, two little children, brother and sister, ran to meet Perico, but at the moment they reached him, the deep and solemn sound of a bell called to prayer. Perico stood still and uncovered his head. The ass and the dog, that from long habit knew the sound, stopped also, and the little ones remained immovable. When their father had concluded the prayers of the mystery of the annunciation, the children drew near and said--

"Your hand, father."

"May God make you good!" answered Perico, blessing his children.

The boy, who was impatient to be mounted on the ass, asked his father why people must be still when the bell rung for prayer.

"Don't you remember," said his sister Angela, "what Aunt Elvira tells us, that when it strikes this hour dedicated to the Blessed Virgin, our guardian angels stand still, and if we go on then, we shall be alone--without them?"

"That is true, sister," answered the boy, giving, with all his little might, a blow to the ass upon which his father had placed him, a blow of which, fortunately, the patient creature took not the least notice.

Six years had passed since the occurrence of the sorrowful events we have related. To make the remembrance of them still more sorrowful, the unhappy Marcela, who witnessed from her hiding-place the insult to her {661} father, the terrible vengeance taken by her brother, and the flight of the latter, had gone mad.

No tidings of Ventura had ever been received, and all believed that he was dead. Notwithstanding, in their tenderness for Elvira and their friendship for Pedro, the others spoke to them in the words of a hope which did not exist in their own hearts.

Time, the great dissolvent, in which joys and griefs alike are lost--as in water disappear both the sugar and the salt--had made those memories, if not less bitter, at least more endurable. Only from Pedro's lips, instead of his lively songs and habitual jokes, was often heard, "My poor son! my poor daughter!"

Elvira, alone, was excepted from this influence of time. She was wasting in silence, like those light clouds in the sky, which, instead of falling to the earth in noisy torrents, rise softly and gradually until they are lost from sight. She never complained, nor did the name of Ventura, of him upon whom she had looked as the companion the church would give her, pass her lips.

"A worm is gnawing at her heart," said Anna to her son; "the rest do not see it, but it is not hidden from me."

"But, mother," he answered, "where do you see it? She complains perhaps?"

"No, my son, no: but, Perico, a mother hears the voice of the dumb daughter," replied Anna with sadness.

Rita and Perico were happy, because Perico, with his loving heart, his sweet temper, and his conciliatory character, made the happiness of both. A year after their marriage, Rita had given birth to twins. On that occasion, she was at death's door, and owed her life to the tender care of her husband and his family. She remained for a long time feeble and ailing, but at the moment in which we take up the thread of our story, she was entirely restored, and the roses of youth and health bloomed more brightly than ever upon her countenance.

When they were reunited that evening, Maria exclaimed: "Blessed mother, what a fearful storm we had last night! I was so frightened that my very bed shook with me! I recalled all my sins and confessed them to God. I prayed so much that I think I must have awakened all the saints: and I prayed loud, for I have always heard say that the lightning loses its power from where the voice of praying reaches. To the Moors! To the Moors! I said to the tempest, go to the Moors, that they may be converted and tremble at the wrath of God! Not until day-break, when I saw the rainbow, was I consoled: for it is the sign God gives to man that he will not punish the world with another flood. Why do men not fear when they see these warnings of God!"

"And why would you have them tremble, mother, for a thing which is natural," said Rita.

"Natural!" retorted Maria. "Perhaps you will also tell me that pestilence and war are natural! Do you know what the lightning is? For I heard a farmer say that it is a fragment of the air set on fire by the wrath of God. And where does not the air enter? And where is the place the wrath of God does not reach? And the thunder--the thunder, said a certain preacher, is the voice of God in his magnificence; and that God is to be feared above all when it thunders."

"The rain has been welcome, Mamma Maria, for the ground is thirsty," said Perico.

"The ground is always thirsty," observed Rita, "as thirsty as a sot."

"Father," said Angela, "hear what I sung to-day when I saw the pewets running to the pools," and the little girl began to sing:

"Open your windows, God of Christians! Let the rain come down, See the Blessed Virgin comes riding From the inn of the little town; Riding a horse of snowy whiteness. Over the fields so brown, Lighting all the fields with the brightness Of the glory which shines around. Blessing the fields, the fields of the king: Ring from the big church, let all the bells ring!"

{662}

Angel, not wishing to let his sister, who was the brighter of the two, gain the palm--instantly said: "And I, father, sung:

'Rain, my God, I ask it from my heart. Have pity on me, For I am little, and I ask for bread.'"

"Enough, enough," cried Rita, "you are as noisy as two cicadas, and more tiresome than frogs."

"May we play a game, mother?" said the boy.

"Play with the cat's tail," responded Rita.

"Mamma Maria," said the girl, "I will say the catechism to you, if you will tell us a story. Now hear me: 'The enemies of the soul are three, the devil, the world, and the flesh.'"

"I like that enemy," said the boy.

"Hush, little one; it don't mean the flesh in the stew."

"What then?" asked the boy.

"Learn the words now," answered his grandmother, "and when you know more, apply what you have learned. For the present, I will tell you that your flesh, that is to say, your appetite, tempts you to be so gluttonous, and that gluttony is a mortal sin."

"They are seven," said the girl quickly, and recited them.

"I, Mamma Maria," said Angel, "know the Three Persons, the Father who is God, the Son who is God, and the Holy Ghost, who is a dove."

"How stupid you are!" exclaimed his mother.

"Daughter," remarked Maria, "no one is born instructed. Child," she continued, "the Dove is a symbol, the Holy Spirit is God, the same as the Father and the Son."

Each child pulling at its grandmother as it spoke:

"I know the commandments of God," said one.

"And I, those of the church," said the other.

"I the sacraments."

"And I the gifts of the Holy Spirit."

"I--"

"Enough, and too much," exclaimed Rita; "you are going to say the whole catechism; or perhaps this is an infant school! What a pleasant diversion!"

"Is it possible," said Maria, grieved, for she had been in her glory listening to the children, "is it possible, Rita, that you do not love to hear the word of God, and that it does not delight you in the mouths of your children? I remember how I cried for joy, the first time you said the whole of Our Father."

"That is so," said Rita; "you are capable of crying at a fandango."

The poor mother did not answer; but, turning to the children, said: "I am so pleased with you because you know the catechism so well, that I am going to tell you the prettiest story I know."

The children seated themselves on a low bench in front of their grandmother, who began her story thus:

"When the angel warned the holy patriarch Joseph to flee into Egypt, the saint got his little ass and set the mother and child upon it. Then they started on their journey through woods and briery fields. Once, when they were in the thickest part of a forest, the lady was afraid because the way was so dark and lonesome. By and by they came to a cave. Out of it ran a band of robbers and surrounded the holy family. When the mother and child were going to get down from the ass, the captain of the band, whose name was Demas, looked at the child; as he looked, his heart smote him, and he turned to his companions and said: 'Whoever touches as much as a thread of this lady's garment will have me to do with,' and then he said to the holy pair: 'The night is coming on stormy; follow me, and I will shelter you.' They went with the robber, and he gave them to eat and drink, and the holy pair accepted what he offered them, for God himself receives the worship of all the bad as well as {663} the good. And for this reason, children, never cease to pray, even though you should be in mortal sin; for this robber, when at last he was taken and condemned to die, found repentance and pardon on the cross itself, which served him for expiation, as it served our Lord for sacrifice. He was converted and was the first of all to enter into glory, as Christ promised him when he was dying for him." Meantime, the wind howled without in prolonged gusts. The doors shook, moved by an invisible hand. The old orange-tree murmured in the court, as if remonstrating with the wind for disturbing its calm.

"Listen," said Perico, "the very nettles will be swept from the ground."

"And how it rains!" added Pedro. "The clouds are torn to bits. The river is going to overflow the fields."

"Did you see how the clouds ran this afternoon?" said Angela to her brother. "They looked like greyhounds."

"Yes," answered the boy, "and where were they going?"

"To the sea for water."

"Is there so much water in the sea?"

"Yes indeed, and more than there is in Uncle Pedro's pond."

"The voice of the wind seems to me like the voice of the evil spirit, that comes leading fear by the hand," said Maria.

"You are always frightened, mother," remarked Rita. "I don't know when your spirit will rest. Look here, lazy-bones," she proceeded, giving a push to the boy who had reclined against her, "lean upon what you have eaten."

The child, being half asleep, lost his balance. Elvira gave a cry, and Perico, springing forward, caught him in his arms. Anna dropped her distaff, but took it up again without a word.

"If you ever lose your son," said Pedro, indignant, "you will not weep for him as I do for mine. You have that advantage over me."

"She is so quick, so hasty," said Maria, always ready to excuse and slow to blame, "that she keeps me in hot water."

"So, then, Mamma Maria," Perico hastened to say, "yon are afraid of everything--and witches?"

"No; oh! no, my son! The church forbids the belief in witches and enchanters. I fear those things which God permits to punish men, and, above all, when they are supernatural."

"Are there any such things? Have you seen any?" asked Rita.

"If there are any? And do you doubt that there are extraordinary things?"

"Not at all. One of them is the day you do not preach me a sermon. But the supernatural I don't believe in. I am like Saint Thomas."

"And you glory in it! It is a wonder you do not say also that you are like Saint Peter in that in which he failed!"

"But, madam, have you seen anything of the kind, or is it only because you can swallow everything, like a shark?"

"It is the same, to all intents, as if I had seen it."

"Aunt, what was it?" asked Elvira.

"My child," said the good old woman, turning toward her niece, "in the first place, that which happened to the Countess of Villaoran. Her ladyship herself told it to me when we were superintending her estate of Quintos. This lady had the pious custom of having a mass said for condemned criminals at the very hour they were being executed. When the infamous Villico was in those parts, committing so much iniquity, she allowed herself to say that if he should be taken, she would not send to have a mass said for him, as she had for others. And when he was executed, she kept her word.

"Not long alter, one night when she was sleeping quietly, she was awakened by a pitiful voice near the head of her bed, calling her by name. She sat up in bed terrified, but saw {664} nothing, though the lamp was burning on the table. Presently she heard the same voice, even more pitiful than at first, calling her from the yard, and before she had fairly recovered from her surprise, she heard it a third time, and from a great distance, calling her name. She cried out so loudly that those who were in the house ran to her room, and found her pale and terrified. But no one else had heard the voice.

"On the following day, hardly were the candles lighted in the churches when a mass was being offered for the poor felon, and the countess, on her knees before the altar was praying with fervor and penitence, for the clemency of God, which is not like that of men, excludes none. And now Rita, what do you think?"

"I think she dreamed it."

"Goodness, goodness! what incredulity," said Uncle Pedro. "Rita will be like that Tucero, who, the preachers say, separated from the church."

"Ave Maria! Do not say that, Pedro," exclaimed Maria, "even in exaggeration! Mercy! you may well say, what perverseness, for she talks so just to be contrary."

A noise in the direction of the door which opened into the back-yard, caused Maria's lips to close suddenly.

"What is that?" she said.

"Nothing, Mamma Maria," answered Perico, laughing; "what would it be? The wind which goes about to-night moving everything."

"Mother," said Angela, "hold me in your lap, as father does Angel, for I am afraid."

"This is too much," exclaimed Rita, who was in bad humor. "Go along and sit on the lap of earth, and don't come back till you bring grandchildren."

"I should like to know," said Pedro, "if those who laugh at that which others fear have never felt dread."

"Perico! Perico!" cried Maria, in terror, "there is a noise in the yard."

"Mamma Maria, you are excited and frightened. Don't you hear that it is the water in the gutter?"

"I, for my part," said Pedro, in a low voice, as if to himself, "ever since there was a stain of blood in my house--"

"Pedro! Pedro! are we always to go back to that? Why will you make yourself wretched? Of what use is it to return to the past, for which there is no remedy?" said Anna.

"The truth is, Anna, what I suffer at times overwhelms me, and I must give it vent. Often at night, when I am alone in my house, it falls upon me. Anna, believe me, many a night, when all is still and sleep flies from me, I see him; yes, I see him--the grenadier my son slew. I see him just as I saw him alive, in his grey capote and fur cap, rise out of the well and come into the room where he was killed, to look for the stains of his own blood. I sec him before my eyes, tall, motionless, terrible."

At this moment the door opened, and a figure, tall, motionless, terrible, with a grey capote and a grenadier's cap stood upon the threshold.

All remained for an instant confounded and fixed in their places.

"God protect us!" exclaimed Maria. Angel clung to his father's breast, Angela to the skirts of her grandmother.

"Ventura!" murmured Elvira, as her eyes closed and her head fell upon her mother's bosom.

The woman for whom there had been no forgetfulness, had recognized him.

Pedro rose impetuously and would have fallen, the poor old man not having strength to sustain himself; but Ventura, who had thrown off his cap and capote, sprung forward and caught him in his arms. The scene which followed, a scene of confusion, of broken words, of exclamations of surprise and delight, of tears and fervent thanks to heaven, is more easily comprehended than described.

When Ventura had freed himself from the embrace of his father, who was long in undoing his arms from {665} the neck of the son whom he could hardly persuade himself he held in them, he fixed his eyes upon Elvira. She was still supported by her mother, who held to her nostrils a handkerchief wet with vinegar. But she was no longer the Elvira he had left at his departure. Pale, attenuated, changed, she appeared as if bidding farewell to life. Ventura's brilliant eyes became softened and saddened with an expression of deep feeling, and, with the frank sincerity of a countryman, he said to her:

"Have you been sick, Elvira? You do not look like yourself."

"Now she will be better," exclaimed Pedro, in whom joy had awakened some of the old festive teasing humor. "Your absence, Ventura, and not hearing from you, nothing less, has brought her to this. Why, in heaven's name, did you not send us a letter, to tell us where you were?"

"Why, our sergeant wrote at least six for me," replied Ventura, "and besides, I have been in France, I have been a prisoner. All that is long to tell--But how well you look, Rita," he said, regarding the latter, who, from the moment he entered, had not taken her eyes from the gallant youth, whom the moustache, the uniform, and the military bearing became so well. "Bless me! but you have become a fine woman! The good care Perico takes of you--and you Perico, always digging? Are these your children? How handsome they are! God bless them! Hey! come here, I am not a Frenchman nor a bluebeard."

Ventura sat down to caress the children. Maria, coming behind him at this moment, caught his head in her hands, and covered his face with tears and kisses--Ventura in the mean while saying, "Maria, how much you have prayed for me! I suppose you have made a hundred novenas, and more than a thousand promises."

"Yes, my son, and to-morrow I shall sell my best hen, to have said in Saint Anna's chapel the thanksgiving mass I have promised."

"Aunt Anna is the one who has nothing to say," observed Ventura. "Are you not glad to see me, madam?"

"Yes my son, yes; I was minding my Elvira. God knows," she continued, observing the pallid countenance of her child, "how glad I am of your return, and what thanks I give him for it, if it is for the best."

"And why not," exclaimed Pedro, "for the best? for all except my kids and your fowls, which are going to give up the ghost within a month, the time it will take to publish the bans."

"Don't be so hasty," answered Anna, smiling, "a wedding, neighbor, is not a fritter to be turned, tossed, and fried in a moment."

"Well, 'every owl to his own olive,'" said Pedro after a while. "Good people, there is a wicket in the street that is tired of being solitary."

"To-night, Uncle Pedro," said Rita, laughing, "the horrors will go to the bottom of the well with the Frenchman, never to return."

"Amen, amen. I hope so," responded the good old man.