Despite all this eloquence, however, Amado, after due temptation, heartlessly jilted Ponciana for the unattractive and homely Bendita. It happened thus: Unable to make any impression on the handsome Amado, despite her sighs and eye-rolling, Bendita at length decided to take, as it were, a back seat, and merely view from afar her beloved, who nightly paraded in the plaza with his beloved. And here it was, one evening, that a brilliant thought came to Bendita.
It was an ideal night, “one borrowed from Paradise,” as the poetical Amado had murmured to his Ponciana. Great bright stars blazed in a velvety-blue sky, while silvery moonlight cast a radiance over the beautiful tropical plaza, wherein fountains trickled musically, and glowing flowers of the tropics heavily perfumed the soft, languid air. From the remote band-stand came sweet, faint strains of the exquisite “Angel de Amor,” while the lowered voices of many gay loungers murmured in musical harmony therewith.
Every one seemed so happy that it was no wonder that tears came to Bendita’s eyes, as she sat, alone and neglected, in her solitary corner. “I have so much homeliness,” she thought, drearily; “no one will ever wish me for a novia—ay de mi!”
Again Amado and Ponciana passed by, Ponciana smiling and dimpling. She wore a white mantilla, while on her finger there was a genuine ring of gold, set with a white stone that sparkled in the moonlight. It was the ring of betrothal, that day given. Amado, being poor, had secured it cheaply from a pawnshop. But Ponciana did not know.
As she gayly flitted by, Bendita noted the sparkle of the ring. “It is like the little glass jewels,” she pondered. “How Amado seems to like it! I might—I might wear those at home. They sparkle, too.”
Behold Bendita, therefore, the next night, arrayed even more magnificently than Solomon in all his glory. For Solomon, whatever he may have gotten himself up in, surely never wore such huge diamond ornaments in the ears, such diamonds and rubies in the hair, such magnificent bracelets. All this was topped off by a long string of diamonds and pearls, while outside her mantilla, at the neck, Bendita displayed, in all humility, a necklace of pear-shaped black and white pearls.
Amado, who had served for three years as a pawnbroker’s clerk, alone of the crowd in the plaza knew that the girl’s jewels were real—fabulously rich. “Carrambas,” he thought, excitedly; “she, in those jewels, is rich as a princess. El Señor Vega, alone, would give fifty thousand pesos for them!”
Others, noting the new finery of the homely girl, said smilingly: “What pretty playthings of glass has our good Bendita found?”
A week’s time saw the feckless Amado off with the old love and on with the new. Quick work, it is true, but—consider the extenuating circumstances. To do him justice, he had a plan for securing the jewels (with Bendita, if it had to be), and later, making matters up with his own pretty first love. Two things prevented this, however: first, Bendita rarely wore, touched, or mentioned the jewels, and he was fearful of exciting her suspicions; second, the jilted Ponciana had vanished from the ken of even her own family. No one seemed to know where she was. Old Madre Piedad, in San Geronimo town near by, knew. The latter dame, thought to be a witch, was the girl’s near relative. To her Ponciana had stated merely that some one had injured her; and asked if Madre Maria would keep her quietly hidden, and teach her how to avenge herself. Madre Piedad promised, and the two, with the aid of an ugly, squat, herb-stuffed doll, a brazero of hot coals, and some long pins, set the ball of vengeance in motion.
Meanwhile, instead of preparing for marriage, Bendita fell grievously ill. She lost flesh rapidly, could not eat, drink, or rest, and complained of agonizing pains that shot through her body. A doctor was consulted, but could not relieve her. Then various old women congregated and muttered together—they could do nothing! Of a truth, it could be nothing less than the mal del ojo (evil eye), and with that only old Madre Piedad, of San Geronimo, could cope. Wherefore Madre Piedad was sent for, and entreated.