PART THIRD
CHAPTER I
THE INTRUDER
Two days later, when Don Jaime was awaiting his dinner in the tower, having returned from a fishing excursion, Pèp presented himself and deposited the basket upon the table with an air of solemnity.
The rustic tried to make excuse for this extraordinary visit. His wife and Margalida had gone to the hermitage of the Cubells again, and the boy had accompanied them.
Febrer began to eat with a lusty appetite after having been on the sea since daybreak, but the serious air of the peasant at last claimed his attention.
"Pèp, you want to say something to me, but you are afraid," said Jaime, in the Ivizan dialect.
"That is true, señor."
Like all timid persons who doubt and vacillate before speaking, but rush into it impetuously when fear is overcome, Pèp bluntly unburdened his mind.
Yes, he had something to say; something very important! He had been thinking the matter over for two whole days, and he could keep silent no longer. He had taken it upon himself to bring the señor's dinner merely for the sake of speaking. Why did Don Jaime make fun of those who were so fond of him? What did he mean?
"Make fun of you!" exclaimed Febrer.
"Yes, make fun of us!" Pèp declared sadly. "How about what happened that stormy night? What caprice impelled the señor to present himself at the courting, taking the chair beside Margalida, as if he were a suitor? Ah, Don Jaime! The 'festeigs' are solemn occasions; men kill one another on account of them. I knew that fine gentlemen laugh at all this, and consider the peasants of the island about the same as savages; but the poor should be left to their customs, and they should not be disturbed in their few pleasures."
Now it was Febrer who assumed a serious countenance.
"But I am not making fun of you, my dear Pèp! It's all true! Listen! I am one of Margalida's suitors, like the Minstrel, like the detested Ironworker, like all other boys who gather in your kitchen to court her. I came the other night because I could bear no more, because I suddenly realized the cause of all that I have been suffering, because I love Margalida, and I will marry her if she will accept me."
His sincere and impassioned accent banished all doubt from the peasant's mind.
"Then it is really true!" he exclaimed. "The girl had told me something of this, weeping, when I asked her the motive of the señor's visit. I could not believe her at first. Girls are so pretentious! They imagine that every man is running mad after them; so it is really true!"
This knowledge caused him to smile, as at something unexpected and amusing.
"What a strange man you are, Don Jaime! It is very kind of you to make demonstrations of esteem for the household of Can Mallorquí; but it is not good for the girl, for she was giving herself airs, imagining herself worthy of a prince, and will not accept any of the peasants.
"It cannot be, señor. Don't you understand that it cannot be? I was young myself once, and I know what it is; how one takes a notion to chase after any girl who is not ugly; but later on one reflects, he thinks about what is good and what is not good, what is proper, and in the end he does not commit a foolish deed. Have you thought it over, really, señor? That was a joke the other night, a caprice–"
Febrer shook his head energetically. No, neither a joke nor a caprice. He loved Margalida, the graceful Almond Blossom; he was convinced of his passion, and he would follow wherever she might lead. He intended in future to do as he pleased, laying aside scruples and prejudices. He had been a slave to them long enough. No; he would have no regret. He loved Margalida, he was one of her suitors, with the same right as any island youth. He meant every word he said.
Pèp, scandalized at these words, wounded in his most conventional and ancient ideas, raised his hands, while his simple soul showed in his eyes full of fear and surprise.
"Oh, Lord! Oh, Lord!"
He was compelled to call upon the ruler of heaven to give expression to his perturbation and astonishment. A Febrer wishing to marry a peasant of Can Mallorquí! The world was no longer the same; it seemed as if all the laws of the universe were turned upside down, as if the sea were about to cover the island, and that in future the almond trees would put forth their flowers above the waves; but had Don Jaime realized what this desire of his signified?
All the respect engendered in the soul of the peasant during long years of servitude to the noble family, the religious veneration his parents had infounded in him when, in his childhood, he saw the gentlemen from Majorca arrive at the island, was now revived, protesting at this absurdity, as something contrary to human custom and to the divine will. Don Jaime's father had been a powerful personage, one of those who made laws over there in Madrid; he had even lived in the royal palace. He still saw him in his memory, just as he had imagined him in the credulous illusions of boyhood, bending men to his will; able to send some to the gallows and pardoning others according to his caprice; seated at the table of monarchs and playing cards with them, just as Pèp himself might do with a crony in the tavern at San José; addressing one another by the familiar "thou"; and when he was not in the court city, he was an absolute seignior in vessels of iron—the kind that spit smoke and cannon balls. How about Jaime's grandfather, Don Horacio? Pèp had seen him but few times, and yet he still trembled with respect as he recalled his regal appearance, his grave, unsmiling face, and the imposing gesture which accompanied his benevolent acts. He was a king after the ancient style, one of those kings who are good and just fathers of the poor, offering bread with one hand and holding a rod in the other.
"And do you wish to have Pèp, the poor peasant of Can Mallorquí, become a relative of your father and of your grandfather and of all those great lords who were masters in Majorca and rulers of the world? Come, Don Jaime, I can't help thinking it all a joke; your seriousness does not deceive me. Don Horacio also used to say the funniest things without losing his judge's face."
Jaime swept his eyes around the interior of the tower, smiling at his poverty.
"But I am poor, Pèp! You are rich, compared to me. Why think of my family, when I am living on your generosity? If you were to cast me out I would not know where to go."
The gesture of incredulity with which Pèp always received such humble declarations, was renewed.
Poor? But was not this tower his? Febrer replied with a smile. Bah! Four old stones that were falling apart; an unproductive hill, which would be worth something only if the peasant should cultivate it. But the latter insisted; there was the property in Majorca, which, even though it were somewhat encumbered, was much—much!
And he extended his arms with a gesture indicating immensity, as if no one could measure the fortune of Jaime, adding convincingly:
"A Febrer is never poor. You can never be that. Better days will come."
Jaime ceased trying to make him realize his poverty. If he thought him rich so much the better. Thus those youths, who knew no broader horizon than that of the island, could not say that he was a ruined man seeking to marry into Pèp's family in order to recover the lands of Can Mallorquí.
Why should the peasant be so surprised at his desire to marry Margalida? In the end it was nothing more than the repetition of an eternal history, that of the disguised and vagabond king falling in love with the shepherdess and giving her his hand. He was no king, neither was he in disguise, but in a situation of absolute need.
"I have heard that story," said Pèp. "It was often told me when I was a child, and I have told it to my own children. I won't say that it never happened so, but that was in other times—other times, very long ago, when animals had speech."
According to Pèp, the most remote antiquity, and also the elysian state of man, was always that joyous time "when the animals had speech."
But now—now he, although he could not read, informed himself of the doings in the world when he went to San José on Sundays and talked with the secretary of the pueblo, and other lettered persons who read the newspapers. Now-a-days kings married queens, and shepherdesses married shepherds; everyone with his kind. The good old times were over.
"But do you know whether or not Margalida loves me? Are you sure that all this seems to her a wild dream as it does to you?"
Pèp maintained a long silence, one hand beneath his hat and the silk kerchief, which he wore in womanish manner, scratching his crisp gray curls. He smiled knavishly, with an expression of scorn, as if rejoicing over the inferiority in which dwells the woman of the fields.
"Women! How can one tell what they think, Don Jaime! Margalida is like all the rest of them, fond of vanities and strange things. At her age they all dream that some count or marquis is coming to take them, away in his golden chariot, and that all her friends will die of envy. I, too, when I was a boy, used often to think that the richest girl in Iviza would come to seek my hand in marriage, some girl, I did not know who, but beautiful as the Virgin and with fields as big as half the island—dreams of youth."
Then ceasing to smile, he added:
"Yes, maybe she does care for you without realizing it. Youth and love are so strange. She cries when anything is said to her about the other night; she declares it was madness, but she won't say a word against you. Ah, would that I could see into her heart!"
Febrer received these words with a smile of joy, but the peasant quickly dispelled it, adding energetically:
"It cannot be, and it must not be! Let her think as she pleases, but I am opposed because I am her father and I desire her welfare. Ah, Don Jaime, everyone with his kind! All this reminds me of a priest who used to lead a hermit's life at Cubells, a wise man, and like many wise men, half crazy; he was trying to raise a brood from, a rooster and a seagull; a gull the size of a goose."
With the interest which the rustic displays for the breeding of animals, he described the eagerness of the peasants when they went to Cubells, gathering curiously around the great cage, where the rooster and the gull were kept beneath the vigilance of the friar.
"The good man's work lasted for years—but—not a chick! Man's efforts avail nothing against the impossible. They were of different blood and of different breed; they lived together tranquilly, but they were not of the same sort, nor could they become so. Everyone with his kind!"
As he said this, Pèp gathered the plates and the remnants of the dinner from the table and put them into the basket, preparing to take his leave.
"We are agreed, Don Jaime," he said with his rustic tenacity, "that it was all a joke, and that you will not bother the girl any more with your notions."
"No, Pèp, we are agreed that I love Margalida, and that I am going to her courting with the same right as any of the island boys. The old customs must be respected."
He smiled at the peasant's ill-humored expression. Pèp shook his head in sign of protest. No; he repeated, that would be impossible. The girls of the district would laugh at Margalida, rejoicing over this strange suitor who broke the order of customs; the malicious would perhaps lie about Can Mallorquí, which had as honorable a past as the best family on the island; even his own friends, when he should go to mass at San José, and all gathered in the cloister of the church, would imagine him an ambitious man who desired to convert his daughter into a fine señorita. And this was not all. There was the anger of the rivals to be reckoned with, the jealousy of those youths, dumb with surprise when he came in that stormy night and sat down beside Margalida. Certainly by this time they had recovered from their astonishment and were talking about him, and would all join to oppose the stranger. The men of the island were as they were. They took life among themselves without disturbing the man from the outside world because they considered him foreign to their circle, and indifferent to their passions; but if the stranger meddled in their affairs, and especially if he were a Majorcan, what would happen? When had people of other lands ever disputed a sweetheart with an Ivizan?
"Don Jaime, for the sake of your father, for the sake of your noble grandfather! It is Pèp who begs you, Pèp who has known you ever since you were a boy. The farmhouse is at your service; everyone who lives in it is eager to serve you—but do not persist in this caprice! It will bring some dire misfortune upon us all!"
Febrer, who had at first listened with deference, straightened his figure when he heard Pèp's predictions. His rude nature rebelled, as if the peasant's fears were an insult. He afraid! He felt equal to fighting all the young men of the island. Not a man in Iviza could force him to change his mind. To the belligerent passion of the lover was joined the pride of race, that ancestral hatred which separated the inhabitants of the two islands. He would go to the courting; he had good companions to defend him in case of need; and he glanced at the gun hanging on the wall; then his eyes descended to his belt where his revolver was hidden.
Pèp bowed his head in despair. He had been just like this when he was young. For women the wildest deeds are done. It was useless to make further effort to convince the señor, who was determined and proud like all his kindred.
"Do as you please, Don Jaime; but remember what I tell you. A great misfortune awaits us—a great misfortune!"
The peasant left the tower, and Jaime watched him walking down toward the farmhouse, the points of his kerchief and the womanish mantle he wore over his shoulders fluttering in the breeze.
Pèp disappeared behind the fence of Can Mallorquí. Febrer was about to step away from the door when he saw rise from among the groups of tamarisks on the hillside a boy, who, after glancing cautiously about to convince himself that he was not observed, ran toward him. It was the Little Chaplain. He sprang up the stairway to the tower, and when he stood before Febrer he burst out laughing, displaying his ivory teeth, surrounded by a dark rose color.
Ever since that night when Febrer had presented himself at the farmhouse the Little Chaplain had treated him with greater confidence, as if he already considered him one of the family. He did not protest at the strangeness of the event. It seemed to him quite natural that Margalida should like the señor and that he should wish to marry her.
"But didn't you go to Cubells?" asked Febrer.
The boy began to laugh again. He had left his mother and sister half way on the road and had hidden among the tamarisks waiting for his father to leave the tower. No doubt the old man wished to have a serious talk with Don Jaime, and so he had sent them all away, and had taken it upon himself to bring him his dinner. For two days he had talked of nothing but this interview. His timidity, and his respect for the master, had made him vacillate, but at last he had decided. He was in ill humor over Margalida's courting. Had the old man scolded very hard?
Evading these questions, Febrer asked the boy with a certain anxiety, "How is Almond Blossom? What did she say when you talked to her about me?"
The boy straightened himself petulantly, happy in being able to defend the señor. His sister had not said anything; sometimes she smiled when she heard Don Jaime's name mentioned, again her eyes moistened, and she almost always brought the conversation to a close, advising the Little Chaplain not to meddle in this affair and to please his father by going back to his studies in the Seminary.
"It will turn out all right, señor," continued the boy, possessed of a fresh sense of his own importance. "It will turn out all right, I tell you. I am sure that my sister loves you dearly—only she is rather afraid of you—she feels a kind of respect. Who would ever have thought that you would notice her! At home everybody seems to be crazy; father looks cross and goes around grumbling to himself; mother sighs and calls on the Virgin, and meantime people imagine that we are rejoicing. But it will all come out right, Don Jaime, I promise you.
"But be careful, señor, be on your guard," added the boy, thinking of his former friends, the youths who were courting Almond Blossom. It seemed that the boys had lost confidence in him, and were cautious of speaking in his presence; but they were certainly plotting something. A week ago they seemed to hate one another and each kept to himself, but now they had joined forces in hatred of the stranger. They said nothing; they were merely taciturn; but their silence was disquieting. The Minstrel was the only one who shouted and displayed anger like an infuriated lamb, straightened his wasted figure, and declaring, between cruel fits of coughing, his intention of killing the Majorcan.
"They have lost respect for you, Don Jaime," continued the boy. "When they saw you come in and sit down beside my sister they were astounded. Even I could hardly believe my eyes, although for some time I knew that you were not indifferent to Margalida; you asked too many questions about her. But now they have waked up, and they are planning something. They have good reason, too. Who ever heard of such a thing as a stranger coming to San José and getting a sweetheart away from a crowd of the boys, the very bravest on the island?"
Local pride spurred the Little Chaplain to adopt for a moment the opinions of the others, but soon his gratitude and affection for Febrer were revived.
"Never mind. You love her and that is sufficient. Why should my sister have to wear out her life digging in the ground when a señor like yourself pays attention to her? Besides," here the young rascal smiled mischievously, "this marriage suits me. You are not going to till the fields, you will take Margalida away with you, and the old man, having no one to leave Can Mallorquí to, will let me marry and become a farmer, and, adios to the priesthood! I tell you, Don Jaime, you'll win. Here am I, the Little Chaplain, to fight half the island in your defense."
He glanced about as if expecting to encounter the severe eyes and the mustaches of the Civil Guard, and then, after a moment's hesitation, like that of a great but modest man trying to conceal his importance, he drew from his belt a knife the brilliancy and glitter of which seemed to hypnotize him.
"See that?" he asked, admiring the smoothness of the virgin steel, and looking at Febrer.
It was the knife which Jaime had presented him the day before. Jaime had been in a good humor and he had made the Little Chaplain kneel. Then, with jesting gravity, he had struck him with the weapon, proclaiming him invincible knight of the district of San José, of the whole island, and of the channels and cliffs adjacent. The little rascal, tremulous with emotion at the gift, had taken the act with all gravity, thinking it an indispensable ceremony among gentlemen.
"See that?" he asked again, looking a Don Jaime as if protecting him with all the immensity of his valor.
He passed a finger lightly along the edge, pressing the fleshy tip against the point, delighting in the sharp prick. What a jewel!
Febrer nodded his head. Yes, he recognized the weapon; it was the one he had brought from Iviza.
"Well, with this," continued the boy, "not a brave will dare to face us. The Ironworker? He is a fraud! The Minstrel and all the rest? Frauds also. I'm only waiting for a chance to use this! Anybody who attempts anything against you is sentenced to death."
Finally, with the sadness of a great man who is wasting his time without an opportunity to display his valor, he said, lowering his eyes:
"When my grandfather was my age they say that he had already killed his man, and that half the island stood in fear of him."
The Little Chaplain spent part of the afternoon in the tower talking of Don Jaime's supposed enemies, whom he now considered as his own, putting up his knife and drawing it forth again, as if he enjoyed contemplating his disfigured image in the polished blade, dreaming of tremendous battles which always terminated by the flight or death of the adversaries, and by his valorously rescuing the embattled Don Jaime, who took as a jest his appetite for conflict and destruction.
In the evening Pepet went down to the farmhouse to get Don Jaime's supper. He had found the suitors who came from a distance sitting on the porch awaiting the beginning of the festeig. "See you later, Don Jaime!"
As soon as night closed in, Febrer made his preparations, his face set, his mien hostile, his hands thrilling with an imperceptible homicidal twitch, like a primitive warrior starting on an expedition from the mountain top to the valley. Before throwing his haik over his shoulders, he drew his revolver from his belt, scrupulously examining the cartridges, and the working of the trigger. Everything all right! The first man to make an attempt against him would get all six shots in the head. He felt like a savage, implacable, like one of those Febrers, lions of the sea, who landed on hostile shores, killing to avoid being killed.
With one hand in his belt fondling the butt of his revolver, he walked down the hill among the clusters of tamarisks, which waved their undulating masses in the darkness. He found the porch of Can Mallorquí full of young men standing about, or seated on the benches, waiting while the family finished supper in the kitchen. Febrer detected them in the dim light by the odor of hemp emanating from their new sandals, and from the coarse wool of their mantles and Arabian capes. The red sparks of cigarettes at the lower end of the porch indicated other waiting groups.
"Bòna nit!" called Febrer in greeting.
They responded only with a careless grunt. The low-toned conversations ceased, and a painful and hostile silence seemed to settle around each man.
Jaime leaned against a pillar of the porch, his head held high, his bearing arrogant, his figure standing erect against the horizon, and it seemed as if he could feel the hostile eyes fixed on him under cover of the darkness.
He felt a certain emotion, but it was not fear. He almost forgot the enemies who surrounded him. He was thinking uneasily of Margalida. He experienced the thrill of the enamored man when he divines the proximity of the beloved woman and is in doubt as to his fate, fearing and at the same time desiring her approach. Certain memories of the past returned, causing him to smile. What would Mary Gordon say if she could see him surrounded by this rustic crowd, tremulous and vacillating as he thought of the proximity of a peasant girl? How his women friends in Madrid and in Paris would laugh if they should come upon him engaged in this rustic project, ready to take life over the conquest of a woman almost on a level with their servants!
A door opened, outlining in its rectangle of ruddy light the silhouette of Pèp.
"Come in, men!" he said, like a patriarch who understands the desires of youth and laughs good-naturedly at them.
The young men entered one after the other, greeting Señor Pèp and his family, taking their seats on benches or chairs like schoolboys.
As the peasant of Can Mallorquí recognized the señor he started in surprise. Don Jaime there, waiting like the others, like an ordinary suitor, without venturing to enter this house, which was his own! Febrer replied with a shrug of the shoulders. He preferred to do as did the others. He imagined that thus it would be easier to accomplish his purpose. He did not wish to have his former condition recalled—he was a suitor, nothing more.
Pèp forced him to sit beside him, and tried to entertain him with conversation, but Febrer did not take his eyes off Almond Blossom, who, faithful to the ritual of such occasions, was seated in a chair in the center of the room, receiving the admiration of her suitors with the demeanor of a timid queen.
One after another took his place beside Margalida, who responded to their words in a low voice. She pretended not to see Don Jaime; she almost turned her back upon him. The suitors, awaiting their turns, were silent, not keeping up the merry chattering with which they had whiled away the time on other nights. Gloom seemed to weigh upon them, compelling them to silence, with lowered gaze and compressed lips, as if a dead man were lying in the adjoining room. It was the presence of the stranger, the intruder, foreign to their class and to their customs. Accursed Majorcan!
When all the youths had sat in the seat beside Margalida, the señor arose. He was the last one to present himself as a suitor, and, according to rule, it was his turn. Pèp, who had been talking to him ceaselessly to distract his attention, suddenly remained open-mouthed in surprise at seeing him move away.
He sat down beside Margalida, who seemed not to see him, her head bowed and her eyes lowered. The young men remained silent in order to catch the stranger's faintest words, but Pèp, realizing their plan, began to speak in a loud voice to his wife and son about some work to be done the next day.
"Margalida! Almond Blossom!"
Febrer's voice sounded like a caressing whisper in the girl's ear. He had come to convince her that what she had considered a caprice was love, true love. Febrer hardly knew how it had come about. He had felt ill at ease in his solitude, experiencing a vague desire for better things, which perhaps lay within his reach, but which he in his blindness could not recognize, until suddenly he had seen clearly where joy was to be found. That joy was herself. Margalida! Almond Blossom! He was not young, he was poor, but he loved her so much! Only a word, some sign to dissipate his uncertainty!
But the girl gently shook her head. "No; no. Go! I am afraid!" She raised her eyes and glanced uneasily at all the brown youths with their tragic mien, who seemed to scorch the pair with their blazing eyes.
Afraid! This word sufficed to arouse Febrer from his beseeching attitude and to cause him to stare defiantly at the rivals seated before him. Afraid? Of whom? He felt equal to fighting all those rustics and their innumerable relatives. Afraid! No, Margalida! She need not fear either for herself or for him. He begged her to answer his question. Could he hope? What did she intend to reply?
Margalida remained silent, her lips colorless, her cheeks a livid pallor, winking her eyes to conceal her tears. She was going to cry. Her efforts to restrain her tears were apparent; she sighed with anguish. Tears, suddenly bursting forth in this hostile atmosphere, might be a sign for battle; they would bring about the explosion of all that restrained anger which she divined around her. No, no! This effort of her will served only to enhance her misery, compelling her to bow her head like those sweet and gentle animals who think to save themselves from danger by hiding their heads.
Her mother who sat in a corner weaving baskets, grew alarmed. With feminine intuition she realized Margalida's suffering. Her husband, seeing the anxiety in her sad, resigned eyes, intervened opportunely.
"Half past nine!" There was a movement of surprise and protest from the youths. It was early yet; it lacked many minutes of the hour; the agreement should rule. But Pèp, with the stubbornness of the rustic, would not listen. Repeating the words, he arose and strode toward the door, opening it wide. "Half past nine!" Every man was master of his own house, and he did as he thought best in his. He had to get up early the next morning. "Bòna nit!"
He spoke courteously to each of the suitors as they filed out of the house. As Jaime passed, gloomy and crestfallen, Pèp grasped his arm. He must remain; Pèp would accompany him to the tower. He glanced uneasily at the Ironworker, who was behind him, the last to take his leave.
The señor did not reply, freeing his arm with a brusque movement. Accompany him! He was furious on account of Margalida's silence, which he considered crushing; on account of the hostile attitude of the young men; on account of the strange way in which the evening had been brought to a close.
The young suitors dispersed in the darkness, without shouts, or whistling, or songs, as if returning from a funeral. Something tragic seemed to be floating on the dark wings of night.
Febrer walked on until he arrived at the foot of the hill, where the tamarisk shrubs were thickest; then he turned, and stood motionless. His silhouette stood out against the whiteness of the path in the pale light of the stars. He held his revolver in his right hand, nervously clutching the breech, caressing the trigger with a feverish finger, eager to fire. Was no one following him? Did not the Ironworker or any of his other enemies lurk behind him?
Time passed, and no one appeared. The wild vegetation around him, enlarged by shadow and by mystery, seemed to laugh sarcastically at his anger. At last the fresh serenity of drowsy Nature seemed to penetrate his soul. He shrugged his shoulders scornfully, and holding his revolver before him walked on until he locked himself in his tower.
He spent the whole of the next day on the sea with Tío Ventolera. Returning to his dwelling he found the supper, which the Little Chaplain had brought him, cold on the table.
The following day the boy of Can Mallorquí appeared with a mysterious air. He had important things to tell Don Jaime. The afternoon before, when he had been hunting a certain bird in the pine forest near the Ironworker's forge, he had seen the man from a distance talking with the Minstrel beneath the porch of the blacksmith shop.
"And what else?" asked Febrer, wondering that the boy had no more to say.
Nothing else. Did that seem unimportant? The Minstrel was not fond of the mountains, for climbing made him cough. He always traveled through the valleys, sitting under the almond and fig trees to compose his verses. If he had gone up to the blacksmith shop it was undoubtedly because the Ironworker had sent for him. The two were talking with great animation. The Ironworker seemed to be giving advice, and the sick boy was listening with affirmative gestures.