The next evening Jose 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."

Jose 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?" Jose 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."

Jose 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 Jose sat on the bench outside the door, smoking.

[Ill.u.s.tration: 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 Jose 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 Jose could say more she rose with fierce suddenness, and pa.s.sed 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 pa.s.sion 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 Jose; 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 pa.s.sionate desire to be pretty--to be prettier than ever before. She used to stand before her sc.r.a.p of looking-gla.s.s 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 pa.s.sionate 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 Jose 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 Jose 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 pa.s.sed 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.

Jose must take her. She wished to go.

"It is better that we should not go there," said Jose. "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 Jose 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.