The glad lady

In a few days the little fonda lost the guests who had set such a mark of distinction upon it that Matilda felt her house had risen to the highest repute. A rainy day had kept all within doors and had lent an opportunity for better acquaintance with Robert Lisle, an opportunity which was made use of, not alone by Patty, but by Doña Martina and her husband. These two latter had urged Mr. Lisle to make their house his home while he remained, but he had declined, saying his movements were uncertain and he might at any moment be called to Santander. He promised, however, to consider them as relatives upon whom he could drop in without ceremony.

The charming old Estrada mansion could not be entirely seen from the high road; one must enter through a lofty gate before all the gray buildings came in sight, though they and the garden were visible from the side where one of the little narrow byways led off into the mountain. A low fence surrounded this side of the garden, which overlooked a green vale and the mounting reaches of the mountains themselves. Entering the main gateway, one saw first the house itself, with its stone patio, where countless pigeons cooed and pattered about. Above were stone balconies and deep set windows, over which were the sculptured arms of the house of Estrada. From a stone-paved hallway, into which one must first enter, opened dining-room, kitchen, pantries and servants’ quarters, while above stairs were the salon and the bedchambers, all spacious rooms, looking out upon the garden in one direction and the mountains in another. The furniture was old, but the rooms were comfortable and there were so many as well might accommodate a larger family. Beyond the house stood the little chapel, a covered way leading to it from the second storey. Further away were the stables and out-buildings. Fresh paint, where it was needed, gave an air of cleanliness to the place, though the fine old rafters, oaken floors and doors were left as they should be. In the garden, palms and apple trees, figs and oranges, roses and geraniums as high as your head, grew side by side, and this latter part of June there was a blaze of color.

Word had gone forth that Don Juan invited the villagers to a fiesta in honor of his home-coming and of his name day, and as he had throughout the countryside a reputation for performing wonderful cures, for great charity, and for true kindness of heart, far and near, the people prepared for the occasion.

Robert Lisle promised to be on hand and the evening before the day of San Juan appeared just as all were starting out for a walk.

“Come with us,” said Doña Martina. “We are going to follow the custom of St. John’s Eve. This is the vespera, as they call it.”

“And what is that?” he asked, taking from her hand the basket she carried.

“We are going to deck the streams and springs. Those are rose leaves in that basket and those flowering branches which Juan and Tomás carry are for the same purpose. Come with us and help. It is such a pretty custom and I want the girls to see how it is done.”

They pursued their way along a little stream which ran through the village. Here was the washing place where daily was seen a group of women beating out garments on the rocks or rinsing them in the clear mountain water. Further along was a bridge and further yet another, the latter in a quiet spot where the gurgle of the water and the whisper of the new leaves made a pleasant murmuring song. Here the party paused to strew their rose leaves and daisy petals.

Nothing would do but that Patty must explore the stream further along. “It is much more fun to stand on the very edge and send the petals on their mission,” she declared. “One somehow has a more intimate relation with the stream doing it that way.” Tomás followed her and the two were soon making merry over the fate of certain of their offerings.

“Come on, Glad Lady,” called Doña Martina. “We are going.”

“What did you call her?” inquired Mr. Lisle.

“Oh, that was Tomás’s first comment upon my sister. He said she was a glad lady and we thought it very apt.”

“She certainly is a merry creature, so much more spontaneous and frank than most one meets. I think candor and spontaneity are the charm of our Southern girls.”

“I like you to say ‘our’; it sounds as if you still felt you belonged to Kentucky.”

“Oh, but you know, I do feel so.”

“Paulette has vivacity enough,” Doña Martina went on, “but it is of a different quality.”

“Quite so. Miss Paulette is entertaining, but—she is French.”

“I see you have the insular prejudice.”

Mr. Lisle laughed. “I am afraid I have. Where do we go next?”

“To the fuente. The young people of the village will have bedecked it by now.”

“That is the fountain?”

“Yes, or the spring, as you choose. It is the great gossiping place, as I suppose you have noticed, for one is sure to meet one’s neighbors there during some part of the day.”

“It is singing the same little contented tune,” said Patty, as she and Tomás came up. “It does not change it even for feast days. Aren’t you all excited over to-morrow? I think there are so many pretty customs for the day of St. John. I like to think of the young men climbing to the windows of their lady loves to fasten flowers and boughs there. I am wondering if Don Felipe will climb to our window, Polly, to set a bough of blossoms thereby. I’d like to observe him in the act.”

“Patty,” her sister spoke reprovingly.

“But wouldn’t he look just like a monkey? Give him a red cap and coat and he might go with a hand organ.”

“Patty, you forget you are speaking of a friend of ours,” said her sister with dignity.

“Oh, but he is a friend of mine, too, and I may yet be making red coats and caps for him myself, who knows? At all events, I’d like to see him scrambling up to our balcony.”

The flowering branch was indeed there by the window the next morning, but by whom it was placed, or for whom it was intended, no one could discover. However, there were two nosegays, one each side the casement, so there was no disputing a claim to these. The two girls were laughingly squabbling over the bough of blossoms when Doña Martina called to them, “Come down, come down and see what our young friends have been doing.”

The two hurriedly made their toilets and went down to find an archway of flowers over the gate, garlands festooned across the windows and twined around the balconies. In the center of the patio was set a tree. “The presents have begun to arrive already,” Doña Martina told them. “Old Antonia has been here with a pair of pigeons and here comes Miguel with a basket.”

“Isn’t it exciting?” said Patty, peeping out to watch Anita take the basket.

“A remembrance for Don Juan, señora,” said the maid. Doña Martina lifted the cover to disclose a pair of white fowls.

And so the procession kept up all morning. Here came a lad with a basket of fruit, there an old woman with a bucket of eggs, next a young girl with a pat of butter on a quaint plate of peasant-ware, plate and all intended for the good doctor. The climax was reached when a handsome dark-eyed girl appeared, leading a snow-white lamb, decked off with a wreath of daisies, the flowers of San Juan.

All must go out to welcome the little lamb. “The true symbol of San Juan,” cried Doña Martina. “Isn’t it a darling? Come in, Perdita. Don Juan will want to thank you himself. Anita will take you to his study. She is very grateful,” Doña Martina explained to the girls, “for Juan cured her grandmother of threatened blindness. These peasants are such a superstitious set and someone had told the poor old grandmother to dry a piece of holy palm which had been blessed by the priest, to crush it to a powder and put it on her eyes. Imagine the result! I never saw Juan more indignant. ‘But, foolish woman,’ he said, ‘you have aggravated the trouble. You would be totally blind if you continued such a stupid course. Had you no better sense?’ ‘It was my faith, only my faith,’ wailed the poor old thing. They are just like that, and half the time all that is needed is a little common sense. Eye trouble is very common among them, and no wonder, for they use one another’s handkerchiefs indiscriminately and are utterly careless. Juan has cured scores of cases and they think he is a saint. I am sure Perdita has been coddling the lamb especially for this occasion.”

“Isn’t she a pretty girl,” said Patty, watching the giver of the lamb depart. “She has such masses of wavy hair and such beautiful eyes; then what a fine straight figure and fine carriage.”

“You should see her dance the jota; no one about here does it so well.”

“Shall we see her this evening?”

“Oh, yes, for we shall have good music. Now I must go and see if the maids have prepared refreshments enough. There will be a big crowd, I am sure. If any more presents come, tell me.”

More presents did come straggling along all day, until the supply of such things as the country people could bring added a large store to the larder. “They are poor,” Doña Martina explained, “and Juan accepts no fees, so, as this is their opportunity to give what they can, we are obliged to accept the gifts.”

“I think it is pathetic to see the little dabs some of them bring,” said Patty, watching Anita empty from a bag a small hoard of nuts.

“Are we to dress for the occasion?” asked Paulette.

“Why, a little, maybe,” Doña Martina told her. “White muslin frocks will do.”

“I wish we could wear something really Spanish,” said Patty.

“You can. I have a couple of shawls, mantas de Manila they are called here, and you can wear them as the Spanish girls do. You shall have the yellow one, Paulette the red. You must stick red flowers in your hair, I will show you how to arrange it, and then you will do. Some of the girls will perhaps wear the Asturian costume, they know we like them to, and some will wear the mantas de Manila; others still will simply wear the best they have.”

“Don’t I look Spanish?” cried Patty, well pleased with herself, when she stood ready for the dance. “You look stunning, too, Polly. Isn’t it a pretty dress?”

“You at least look Spanish enough,” her sister told her. And, indeed, with the yellow shawl draped gracefully around her, a red clavel over each ear, and a big fan in her hand she certainly did look as unlike an American girl as possible. “I must go show myself to Juan,” declared she, dancing out of the room.

She ran impetuously into the study and struck an attitude, unfurling her fan as she did so. “Behold Carmencita!” she cried.

“Bella! Hermosa!” came the comment from the man sitting near the window.

“Don Felipe!” faltered Patty, taken aback. “I thought it was Don Juan. I saw someone and I didn’t stop to see that it was not my brother.”

“Happy Don Juan, to dwell in the house with so much beauty,” returned Don Felipe with a bow.

“I am dressed for the fiesta,” Patty explained, “and I came in to show my costume. I look quite Spanish, do I not?”

“So much so that one might well believe you to be a native of my country. Perhaps you will one day adopt this old Spain of ours. Would it be difficult to persuade you?”

Patty thought of the antique jewels and answered coyly, “No one has tried to as yet, and—” as she saw a sudden flash come into the old don’s eyes, “I have not been here long enough to say whether I should like to make this my adopted country or not.” Then turning her head over her shoulder, “Here comes my brother now. Am I not fine, Juan?” she cried. “I look much more Spanish than Polly. I wish I knew some of the Spanish dances.”

“I should like to teach you,” spoke up Don Felipe.

Patty cast down her eyes that she might hide the amusement in them at the vision of herself capering in the jota opposite the small figure of Don Felipe. “Some time when we have not spectators, perhaps,” she said sweetly, “but to-day I shall only look on.”

“They are coming! They are coming!” Anita at the door announced excitedly, and Patty ran out to join her sister and Paulette, who, standing in the doorway, waited for the approaching villagers.

“They are singing,” said Patty.

“Yes, the song of San Juan,” her sister told her. “Let us go down to the gate and see them in the dance. They sometimes come for miles singing and dancing all the way.”

It could hardly be called a dance, though with joined hands a long line of young men and maidens chanted the song, progressing up the road while they took the step called the dance of San Juan. At the gateway they paused for a moment then entered singing still; Perdita at the head led a band of maidens who offered crowns of the field daisies, the flowers of San Juan. Then a young mountaineer approached with a bow.

“Where is Juan?” asked Doña Martina nervously. “Call him someone, quick.” But at that moment the doctor appeared and then and there was raised a song in his honor. It had been composed by the schoolmaster and had many stanzas which praised the kingly doctor, his gracious wife, his beautiful guests, his princely brother, his estimable friends, and at last sounded the virtues of even his cow and chickens. After this the maids hurried out with trays of cake and wine, the blind violinist and his wife, who pounded on a drum, struck up a typical air and the dancing began.

Most of the damsels considered it unladylike to display much action when dancing the jota, but Perdita was too greatly possessed with the spirit of the dance to be hedged about by conventionalities. With arms aloft, fingers snapping, body swaying, she responded to the steps of her partner. “It is a delight to see her,” said Patty to Don Tomás, who was standing by her side. “If only I could dance like that.”

“I will teach you,” he offered.

“I shall certainly not fail to accept your good offices,” she returned, “although we must practice when Don Felipe is not by. He has already offered to teach me.”